Stung
by Romanse
Summary: Summary: Sometimes it’s not just gun-wielding criminals, knives and bombs that threaten an agent’s life. The littlest of creatures have the power to kill too.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Stung**

**By: Romanse**

**Summary: Sometimes it's not just gun-wielding criminals, knives and bombs that threaten an agent's life. The littlest of creatures have the power to kill too.  
**

**Notes: This is my first story in the Mag7 fandom. It started off in my mind as being only 3 chapters long. I'm afraid that is no longer the case and I apologize for not being able to say upfront how many chapters this will end up being. **

Chris Larabee stared off into the distance, his gaze unmoving at some unseen point of nothingness for well over 45-minutes. Against the backdrop of washed-out green painted hospital walls, the man's profile looked hard as though carved in granite.

The ATF team leader was a tough man with a countenance that bore testimony to the hardness that had forged his soul through fire and loss. He was an intense man and strangers often felt intimidated in his presence, wilting under the weight of his stare. The tension emanating from Chris' body was almost tangible. More than one stranger in the waiting room had chanced to look into Chris' steely eyes and nervously concluded that such a man surely held nothing but callous disregard for the world and the people in it.

But they were wrong. Those penetrating green eyes held worry and guilt on behalf of the man who currently lay fighting for his life just beyond the thick, double doors of Denver Memorial's emergency room.

At the moment, the waiting room was full of people - anxious family and friends dealing with medical crises of their own, but the chairs on either side of the dark-clad man wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, remained empty. No one had dared take a seat next to the silent, intimidating figure with ice for eyes. The silent man's body language was clear: keep away or suffer the consequences.

One man dared.

Vin Tanner, Chris Larabee's close friend, detached himself from the wall where he had been leaning, walked over and folded his lean body into the hard, plastic chair on Larabee's right. Tanner casually stretched out his long legs and hooked his thumbs through his side jean pockets. A man of few words, the long-haired sharpshooter spoke softly without looking at Chris. "It wasn't your fault, cowboy."

For an interminable moment the blond man said nothing. Then Chris turned angry, guilt-ridden eyes on his close friend and he spoke bitterly. "Whose fault would it be? JD's for hitting the ball out that far? Ezra's for being stubborn enough to go after it?" Chris shook his head in frustration, "Damn it, I knew I should have cleared those junk cars out of there when I moved into the place."

Vin said nothing. He felt no need to remind Chris of facts which the team leader was well aware. Facts such as the shells of three rusted- out, wrecked cars resting at the farthest part of Chris' sprawling ranch had been there ever since two years ago when Chris had purchased the property with its handyman's, fixer-upper house, barn, and stables where he and his colleagues boarded their horses.

Right away Chris had set about the business of turning the run down place into a real home and it had taken the widower more than eighteen months of working on and off during his spare time to do it. He'd scarcely had time to concern himself with the pile of junk cars until six months ago when he'd turned his ambitions towards building a fence around the property so that he could at last bring his horses home.

Chris had initially believed that the junk cars were on his property, but a clerical error on his land survey had mistakenly extended his property line past its proper boundary. The corrected property boundaries legally placed the rusted-out car husks on the property of his neighbor, an ornery old man by the name of Guy Royale.

The heap of junk cars was an eye-sore and Chris had approached the man in a casual, friendly fashion and asked if he wouldn't mind having them removed. Royale had gruffly told Chris that he'd damn well keep on his property anything he damn well pleased. Holding his temper in check, Chris had offered to see to it himself and eventually, the man had agreed.

Right about now, Vin realized, Chris was kicking himself for not having taken care of the problem immediately though he could not have know what danger the cars harbored or that anyone, much less one of his own men could potentially die because he hadn't. And Devil...Vin's heart ached at the thought of the animal's painful death. Chris' beloved black lab, Devil had been killed despite Ezra's brave attempts to save him.

After a time Vin spoke: "Should've, could've, would've. Shit happens, Chris. You know that. It wasn't JD's, or Ezra's fault and it sure as hell wasn't yours." Vin said with quiet conviction. Tanner looked over at his friend and boss and noted the set of the other man's face.

"Tell that to Ezra," Chris fairly snarled.

Vin sighed. This wasn't going to be easy.

*******

Josiah Sanchez, Team Seven's profiler sat next to Nathan Jackson, the team's medic. From across the room Josiah watched their leader from beneath hooded eyes until his need to provide a word of comfort spurned him to action. He stood up, but for Nathan's hand staying his approach, the grey-haired, giant of a man would have walked over and offered his own words of encouragement where others couldn't seem to find any. "Leave him be, Josiah," Nathan's rich baritone voice said softly, as if he'd read the big profiler's mind.

Josiah sighed. "He's carrying a boat-load of guilt that doesn't rightly belong to him, Nathan."

"I know, but…" Nathan's voice trailed off, his dark brown eyes reflecting the same worry Josiah felt. What was there to say? It hadn't been Chris' fault, either more than it had been JD's or hell, the bees that had sunk their stingers into Ezra's chest, hands and arms, sending him into severe anaphylactic shock. If he could, Nathan would use his credentials as Team Seven's medic to go into the treatment room and do whatever he could to keep the Southern man whom he sometimes butted heads with, but cared a great deal for, alive.

The odds weren't good. In all his years as a medic he'd never had to treat someone who was literally dying right in front of his eyes from a bee sting. Nathan shook his head as if he could clear the ghastly memories playing in his head. Ezra choking. Ezra falling to the ground in distress. Ezra's shocked pale face as his throat began to close, relentlessly cutting off his air supply.

Those eyes, those green eyes that normally sparkled with dry wit and intelligence had grown wide with fear at the sudden violence of his body's betrayal. Those eyes had stayed trained on Nathan's face as the medic shoved Chris and JD out of the way to bend over him. Nathan would never forget the total look of trust that had been embedded deep in the pain-filled eyes. It was a look that bespoke of an absolute faith that Nathan would help him. Nathan could use his medical skills and the strength of his hands to ease the awful, vice-like, swelling constriction that was causing Ezra to fight desperately for air even as he'd heard, through his stethoscope, the stricken man's heart thundering, tripping, and then faltering into cardiac arrest.

Ezra had stopped breathing then. What followed had been a nightmarish ride to the hospital with Nathan counting down the minutes Ezra had been without oxygen as he had tried without success, to keep his airway open then had resorted to performing an emergency tracheotomy.

Having already been practically thrown out of the treatment room once amidst a flurry of moving hands and arms, barked orders, and the god-awful sound of electric shocks being applied to Ezra's helpless body, Nathan reluctantly stayed where he was.

He had no authority to be in the treatment room. As team medic, his access was limited and extended only as far as was required to relay to the doctors what treatment he'd administered and the details of Ezra Standish' medical history. Apparently, the suave undercover agent had an allergy to bee stings Nathan hadn't known about.

Nathan was convinced Ezra had gone all his life and never known about it either. That conviction led the medic to contemplate just how far the two men had come in their personal and professional relationship. There had been a time when Jackson would have believed that the handsome, green-eyed man was fully capable of lying about having no knowledge of such an allergy just so he could weasel his way into the ranks of the FBI and ATF.

The Southerner had been the last member to join the team and right from the beginning their relationship had been a rocky one and stayed that way for many months. Jackson hadn't trusted Ezra. Standish's southern accent, large vocabulary and high-falutin manners had immediately gotten on the black medic's nerves. He too was a son of the South and had had far too many negative experiences with Southern born Whites that had left a few deep wounds on his soul.

Ezra was an undercover agent. His job required him to be the best at being a chameleon in order to stay alive. But Nathan hadn't been convinced that the superb acting and easy ability to assume any persona in order to catch criminals didn't extend to the man's personal character off the job.

In Nathan's former way of thinking, Ezra was a con man and a con man conned. The cloud of suspicion that had followed Ezra from his FBI job in Atlanta had stopped at Team Seven's door, but not necessarily throughout the Denver ATF office and not necessarily with Nathan Jackson. There were more than a few agents willing to speculate and embellish the allegations that had been made against the handsome undercover agent with new "facts" and Nathan had heard every one of them.

But that was all in the past. Nathan had seen the real Ezra Standish time and time again. He knew the Southern man to be a man of integrity and courage. Ezra, who had trust issues of his own, had done more than dare to hold out his hand and call a black man brother. He had shown Nathan that he would willingly lay down his life for each of his team mates, including him.

Though not related by blood, Ezra _was_ Nathan's brother in all the ways that counted. Now Nathan was struggling with his own worry and guilt over not having known that Ezra was so very allergic to bee venom. He hadn't had any of the life-saving epinephrine with him to administer . He didn't carry the medication in his bag because, before now, it had never been medically indicated for any of Team Seven's members.

The medic quietly watched his brothers each handle the stress in their own way. He kept his worries to himself such as whether or not Ezra would live and if he did, would the cocky undercover agent have sustained brain damage due to the time he'd been without sufficient oxygen.

*******

As for JD Dunne, Team's Seven's youngest member sat slouched in a corner, his thick black hair hanging down, obscuring his boyish features. His best friend and room mate, Buck Wilmington was at his side, one lean arm strung across the younger man's back.

Buck was doing what Buck did best: being there for a hurting friend with unconditional strength of friendship. The handsome, dark-haired agent was torn between wanting to comfort JD and seeing to Chris, his oldest friend.

Buck had been the one to drag Chris, kicking and screaming, out of the bottle and back to life after his wife Sarah and son, Adam had both been brutally murdered when they'd burned alive in their home in an arson-set fire. But despite Buck's steady friendship and unswerving loyalty, Buck had gotten Larabee only so far. It been the coalescing of Team Seven into an elite crime fighting unit and then later, into a real family that had saved Chris Larabee from his demons.

Unlike Chris Larababee, Buck wore his concern on his face. If Ezra Standish died, no matter what anyone said, his boss and oldest friend would blame himself and the young man beside him would be right there with Chris, wallowing in misplaced guilt.

"JD - "

"I know, Buck. It wasn't my fault, but I can't help but think that I darn well know Ezra doesn't like to play sports. I egged him on until he felt like he couldn't say no..." The young man's voice trailed off before he turned worried dark eyes that suddenly flashed with anger on the older man. "Then when I hit that ball and it landed in those old cars...damn it, why did I have to go and dare him to go in there and get it, Buck? Why?" The younger man was becoming distraught - frustrated by the weight of his guilt.

"Did you know there was a hive in one of those cars?" Buck asked patiently.

"Of course not, Buck, but that's not the point!" JD exclaimed.

"Well, what is the point, kid, 'cause I sure as hell don't see it." Despite his nature, Buck was running out of patience. It was an accident, a stupid freak thing of nature, and everything Ezra did he did it to the extreme. Of course the man would darn near die from being stung by bees!

Buck nearly groaned aloud with the terrible reality of the situation. Oh God...it was true, Ezra really could die. Buck knew how serious the situation was because a childhood friend of his had, in fact, died of a bee sting, and Ezra had been stung not once, but many times by the angry swarm.

The little family they'd all forged through blood and sacrifice may very well have to endure the first loss of one of its own. _Not you, Ezra Standish. You promised Chris - hell, you promised __us__, that you wouldn't run out. Not like this, pard. Not like this._


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

_What's his pressure? Is that tube in? Let's get him on the vent...Get another line in...He's crashing...Get the Paddles...Charge to 300...Clear...No good...Charge to 400...Forty stingers so far..._

It was quite a view from his vantage point, Ezra Standish thought. He didn't find it disconcerting in the least, even if he were floating high up somewhere near the corner of a bright ceiling while at the same time watching himself lying half-naked on a table as the machine sending jolts of electricity to shock his heart back to life whined, then sent his body bucking helplessly.

All in all it was a good deal. He didn't have to feel the pain of the rough handling of his body as things were put on and in him by strangers swarming over him much like the bees had. He wasn't feeling the agony of the terrible muscle spasms, nor did he have to be afraid at finding himself in such a bizarre location even if he'd not once in his life ever been asked to float upon a ceiling without the aid of an aerial device of some kind.

He did, however feel something else that detracted from the overall mere curiosity of the event. He was feeling a sense of deep regret. He had a dreadful feeling that where he was was a place from which he could not return. Chris? Nathan? Buck? The others? Did they know he wasn't running out on them? Good Lord, did they know he was at the moment, stuck floating on a ceiling somewhere? They could not join him here for surely none of his compatriots had this same talent for achieving such a feat as he had apparently developed. Well, maybe JD did, Ezra revised. The young computer genius had all kinds of untapped talents - but by the look of things, he most likely wasn't going to be around to see the young man realize them all.

His seemingly good humor, considering the circumstances, surprised Ezra. He should be bitter. He should be angry that the promise of a life spent in the company of a band of men who'd took him into their hearts and made him family, was going to end so senselessly and prematurely. _But you knew that all along. Family, permanency, love are not for the likes of you_, an insidious, deceptive inner voice told him.

No, never for the son of Maude Standish. The deep longing in his heart for the things he'd coveted most had given him the courage to reject his mother's teachings he'd heard since he was old enough to walk.

Maude had always told him that nothing in life was permanent, trust no one, and for God's sake, never let them know what he was feeling. When lectures hadn't been enough, the grifter had resorted to _showing_ her only child with her particular brand of lessons she'd referred to as, 'hard loving'. Through artful manipulation, she had deprived him of one friend after another. She'd taught her little boy how to lie and manipulate others to her advantage - and he'd done so, all so that he could be loved by the one person who consistently taught him that love meant being abandoned on the doorstep of countless 'aunts and uncles'. The lessons meant to ensure his survival in the world had instead, closed him off to the possibility of love and friendship, nearly burying him in distrust and loneliness.

Where other people had family and friends to love and stand by them, as a child, Ezra had had only Maude. But everything Maude had ever taught him had proven to be true with his painful experience in Atlanta. The FBI had put his back up against the wall with false allegations of being corrupt and on the take. The straw that had nearly broken him were the rumors that he had been responsible for getting his partner brutally killed by setting him up. There was seemingly no way out, and at that time, life had seemed altogether pointless for the Southerner.

That was until the day he was summoned to his boss's office only to find a man by the name of Chris Larabee standing there. The man wearing black was of average height and build, but had so much charisma that the plush office seemed to diminish around him. The combination of intelligence, coiled strength, and steely force of will emanating from the pale green eyes was a force to be reckoned with.

Introductions had been made, his boss had excused himself, and he was left to stand silent before Larabee's appraising eyes that seemed to stare right into him. The man from the Denver ATF office had all the appearance of a man who could look right into his soul and discern truth from lies. Ezra had been utterly unnerved.

But that was the day Chris Larabee had looked him straight in the eye and asked him if he would come to Denver and join his team as their undercover agent.

That was the day Ezra Standish's life had changed forever.

He'd taken the biggest gamble of his life to take a job after his disgrace in Atlanta and in the process, found a band of brothers he could trust, men who trusted him in return, men he would die for. How ironic then that after he'd finally accepted that there were indeed such things in life as family and friends, he was about to be ripped from them.

Damn it! He'd been happy. He wasn't ready to go no matter that the sly voices in his head were busy reminding him that he couldn't escape from heartache and loss as being the natural order of things.

Ezra made up his mind right then and there that he wouldn't make it any easier for the Grim Reaper to escort him to his next assignment. First things first though. He needed to get back to that body of his lying so still like an inanimate wax doll below. With a practiced eyed he began cataloguing the various medical accoutrements now connected to various parts of his body as he willed himself to return and accept with it the inevitable pain.

Nathan had performed an emergency tracheotomy and the bag that had been steadily squeezed to force air down the slit made in his closed-off throat had been replaced with tubing that tethered him to a ventilator that was breathing for him. Leads going to various monitors were attached to the swollen, hive-covered flesh on his chest.

There were two IV lines inserted in his neck. The first dripped clear saline solution to combat the effects of dehydration. Fortunately, for Ezra, he was blissfully ignorant as to just why he needed that. Under other circumstances, the suave Southerner would have been mortified to know that the severe bouts of diarrhea he'd suffered in the ambulance had necessitated not only the IV drip, but the immediate removal of his clothing and subsequent washing down in the ER.

The other connection was for the various IV push medications flowing directly into his veins.

Ezra noted the familiar tubing that snaked out from between his legs and down to a collection bag. He'd watched rather dispassionately as the catheter tubing had been inserted into his penis, uncharacteristically not caring at all about the strange hands that touched him so intimately.

_What happened to me? Why am I here? _He looked down at himself again. _Or there, as it were_. The peace that had been upon him suddenly vanished and he was filled with fear. Not for himself, but for his friends. Had something happened to them too? Were they...dead?

Ezra realized the only way he would get any answers is if he returned to himself. Returning meant pain and pain was something he'd always been careful to avoid as much as possible. Still, he willed himself to return and endure what ever agonies awaited him.

He hoped it wouldn't be too bad. _Courage, Ezra. Have Courage_.

*******

"I need 125 milligrams of Solumedrol," Doctor Rachel Rivers called as she bent over the body of her patient, closely observing the heart monitor. She'd just finish manually checking the blood pressure for what seemed like the hundredth time.

The fifty-year old physician looked at her patient who was still in severe medical crisis after nearly two hours since his arrival in the ER.

When he'd been brought in he'd not had a pulse, nor had he been breathing on his own. It had been an uphill battle to restart his heart and keep it beating, but now with the massive amounts of Epinephrine that had been administered and now coursing through his system, his heart had begun racing at a dangerous pace. Despite her patient's tracheal intubation, the tinge of blue in his face and lips had not completely faded and he remained profoundly unconscious.

One of the nurses assigned to Dr. River's team was Raine Wakefield, a young, but experienced and competent nurse. Upon seeing the unconscious man with numerous stingers still imbedded in his swollen flesh, Raine Wakefield's eyes had widened in shocked horror. "Oh God, I know this man," the beautiful woman of mixed African and Native American heritage cried. "This is my fiancé Nathan's ATF teammate, Ezra Standish!"

She looked at Ezra and shook her head as if in disbelief. Raine was a medical professional. Doctor Rivers knew she wouldn't let her down and she hadn't. The young nurse had quickly collected herself and sprang into action, doing what she knew to do to try and save the very ill man's life.

Two hours later they were still fighting to get him stabilized enough to move up to the ICU.

*******

Nathan's eyes were closed and his head was tilted back, leaning against someone's balled-up, ratty jacket that had been left behind from earlier in the day. The medic came to full alert as he sensed the presence of someone standing in front of him. It was Raine. His fiancé was looking at him with compassion in her eyes. Even in wrinkled pink floral print scrubs she looked lovely to Nathan.

Jackson looked around to see the rest of the men had also spotted Raine and were already moving towards her, circling her like predatory sharks. Nathan quickly stood up. Fear clenched his gut tightly as Raine put her hand gently on Nathan's arm. "Is he...?"

"He's alive, Nate. I've never seen anyone suffering from anaphylactic shock as severely as him and fight as hard as he is to stay alive."

"He's going to be okay, right? The EMT's gave him an injection and we got him to the hospital in time, didn't we?" The words tumbled out of JD's mouth in a rush and his dark eyes sparkled with anxiety.

Vin observed Chris clenched his jaw though the blond merely looked at Raine as if daring her to say anything otherwise.

Raine chose her words carefully. She wasn't the doctor and it wasn't her place to give a prognosis. "I wish I could tell you that Ezra's out of the woods, but I can't just yet. He's being given massive doses of Epinephrine to help stop the allergic reaction and a cortico steroid via IV push to help reduce the swelling." She paused to allow for any questions, but the men stood silently before her. She pressed on, "He's still unconscious and he's not breathing on his own yet."

"What about Ezra's heart?" Nathan suddenly asked. The men looked questioningly at Nathan.

"What about his heart, Nathan?" Chris asked, his penetrating gaze locked on Nathan.

Raine saw the questioning looks on the other faces and sighed. Infusing her voice with as much reassuring casualness as she could, she explained: "Epinephrine is adrenaline and adrenaline is what's known as the 'fight or flight" hormone. Think of it this way: to someone whose receiving massive amounts of Epinephrine, it would be like downing 10 or 12 pots of premium coffee. The end result is that the patient's blood pressure can become dangerously elevated and experience increased heart rate."

"Those things are temporary, right?" Buck asked worriedly.

Raine smiled gently. "Yes, in most cases. Now, I really need to get back inside, I just thought you'd appreciate an update and knowing that someone who knows Ezra is helping take care of him."

"We're all very grateful to God for that," Josiah said sincerely.

Raine squeezed Nathan's hand quickly and then she turned and disappeared back into the treatment room.

"You heard her, right? Ezra got the medicine and all we have to do is wait for his heart rate and blood pressure to return to normal." JD exclaimed, the broad grin on his face still not quite hiding his underlying anxiety.

To a man, their eyes all held the same desire to believe the youngest's prediction. Chris and Vin exchanged silent looks. Neither man had forgotten that the main point of Raine's information was that Ezra was still unconscious and still not out of the woods.

They all sat down again and resumed their vigil.

*******

Ezra was unaware of the passage of time from where he floated still near the ceiling, looking down upon himself. All he knew was that he'd tried and not been able to return to his body. Suddenly, he looked at his hand to find that he was holding a rather old, dusty deck of playing cards. Curious and frankly glad for the diversion, Ezra opened the deck and with hands made no less dexterous for being in his disembodied state, began a one-handed flip. The King of Clubs came out first, followed by the Queen of Diamonds and then the Ten of Hearts. The next card he pulled was the Ace of Spades.

His hand suddenly burned like fire and his fingers stiffened, releasing the old card. The Ace of Spades fluttered in the air, dropping downward in a slow descent. Ezra watched with heightened dismay as it began its descent to where his body lay below. Unmitigated panic seized him. He couldn't explain it, all he knew was that he _had_ to get that card back!

Ezra Standish reached out his arm in a desperate attempt to catch the card that was clearly out of reach. With a supreme force of will Ezra commanded then cajoled his body into moving. Abruptly his world shifted and was released from his unseen bonds. He was no longer free floating, an observer over the sad drama he was starring in.

He was once again one with his body on the table, valiantly fighting to stay alive. Fiery pain consumed him and before he fell away into an unconsciousness of another kind, the veil fell away from his mind and he at last remembered what had happened. Yes indeed, he remembered.


	3. Chapter 3

/StungCover

* * *

**Part Three**

At 10:00 am on a sunny Saturday morning Ezra Standish carefully steered his sleek black Jag down the winding dirt road and on to the gravel driveway in front of Chris' Spanish-style ranch home. At five miles-per-hour, Ezra could hear the crunching and grinding noise of the tires as they passed over the loose dirt and gravel. He winced each time he heard a 'ding' as the tires threw up a loose rock or two on the Jag's high-end paint job. Not for the first time did Ezra consider asking Chris if he could see his financial records to prove to the man that yes, he really did earn enough money to have the driveway paved.

He could see by his teammates' various vehicles parked in the driveway that he was the last to arrive. As such, he knew that he'd be subjected to some good-natured teasing by his friends, not just for being late, but for what passed as casual attire, Ezra Standish style.

The Southerner looked impeccably dressed in his fine, Italian -made suits which he could afford from his numerous, lucrative investments. That's what he usually wore at the office, but his off-duty wardrobe consisted of designer jeans and polo shirts. Today, he'd selected to wear Calvin Klein blue jeans and an emerald green, Grifoni polo shirt.

His friends. Ezra lips curled upwards in a slight smile. Just one year ago he would not have even joined his team mates for a purely social gathering on a Saturday morning. He would not have allowed himself to think that any invitation extended to him had been made out of any genuine desire to spend time with him outside of the necessity of work.

At that time, he hadn't been ready to trust them in that way. Socializing meant conversation and conversation meant being asked personal questions about whom he was and where he had come from.

What a difference a year had made. Slowly, step by step, he'd learned that the trust he'd had to have in each of his teammates on the job also extended to life outside of work.

He'd observed, he'd tested and pushed - and he'd learned. One of the things he discovered early on was that each of the other men had their own crosses in life to bear and that they trusted each other to help them bear them.

With Chris Larabee, it had been the brutal loss of his wife and son and subsequent slide into a course of self-destruction.

With Josiah Sanchez it had been an abusive father from which he had escaped, but from which his younger sister had not. Left to wither under their father's strict, condemning version of religion, Joanna Sanchez had succumbed to severe mental illness and ultimately, had to be institutionalized. Josiah's guilt, over what he saw as abandonment of his sister for self-preservation, was still a deep wound that troubled him.

Buck Wilmington, on the surface in seemed, was a happy-go-lucky office lothario, but Ezra had long since learned that beneath fun-loving, handsome exterior burned a fire that could be just a volatile and intense as Chris Larabee's but in his own way. Ezra had learned that Buck's unrelenting pursuit of the opposite sex hid an intense desire to shower women with the love and respect his own mother had been denied as she'd struggled to raise her son and support herself, doing so by living the life of a prostitute.

The ghosts of the past had been laid to rest with Nathan Jackson but even so, every now and then Ezra still found himself at odds with the man. Ezra understood that the real underlying reasons were those related to several heinous incidents that had happened to Nathan and his family while Nathan was being raised in the Deep South. Though it had pained the man to speak of it, Nathan had eventually bared his soul to Ezra. Deeply moved, Ezra had asked him for a fresh start and Nathan had readily agreed.

Young though he was, JD Dunne had not escaped the hard realities of loss and heartache either. Before his introduction into the team the young man had been just as, if not more, alone in the world then even Ezra had been. JD's mother and sole relative had died after a long and agonizing illness. Prior to her death she'd lost her health insurance and Dunne had been forced to withdraw from college and use every penny he had to support her. By the time he'd put his mother in the ground, the young man was nearly buried in debt. After a stint with the Boston police, JD had joined the ATF.

The agency had provided far more than a job to the young man. In Team Seven he'd gained a family and in particular, a de-facto big brother in Buck Wilmington, the team's demolitions expert.

Vin Tanner, the team's sharpshooter, was a quiet, shy man. Growing up with undiagnosed dyslexia had provided him with more than a few memories of humiliation that had worn on his self-esteem. To this day the learning disability made reading and writing the complex required reports tedious chores for him. But that didn't stop the man from volunteering his time to read to young, poor, inner-city children who attended the community-run after school program.

On an assignment where the two men had worked closely together, Vin had shared with Ezra the circumstances surrounding his unjust separation from the Army with an Other-Than-Honorable discharge.

These men had been shockingly candid about the personal things in life that had wounded and scarred them emotionally - and for the first time in his life, Ezra had contemplated the possibility that it was possible to share one's burdens without being exploited or treated with contempt the way Maude had raised him to believe.

To outsiders, the men of Team Seven were a tough lot having the appearance of utter fearlessness. But Ezra had learned a long time ago that courage to act did not mean being without fear. These men willingly put their lives at risk because they genuinely cared about making life better for others. Ezra Standish saw that and gradually, his longing to become part of that circle of men who genuinely cared for and trusted each other as they faced the dangers of their chosen profession together, became greater than his natural tendency towards reservation and mistrust.

Now here he was, about to spend the day at his boss' house with the rest of the team - not because he had to, but because he wanted to. By rights, he should have still been in bed sleeping. Chris had given him the day off on Friday after they'd wrapped up a particularly grueling case on late Thursday. Despite the rest he'd gotten, the undercover agent was still tired. He didn't haveto show up today. He knew that the others would be disappointed, but that they would understand.

The thing was, no way would he willingly miss out on a chance to enjoy the easy camaraderie that always accompanied an invitation to Chris' ranch. Truth be told, he craved the fellowship, needed it to re-center and decompress after a particularly taxing undercover assignment. These men acted as a beacon, and the friendships were like points of light gently guiding him back to himself.

Ezra parked the Jag next to Vin's road-hardened, old Jeep, and got out, carefully holding the bottle of fine-aged whiskey he'd brought as a gift for the host.

From the back of the house, he could see whiffs of white smoke arising and knew without looking that Josiah would be behind the grill taking charge of the cooking duties. A slight smile graced the undercover agent's face at the memory of how the former Army chaplain had, on one occasion, waxed philosophic about the 'spiritual approach' to barbequing. Ever since, Sanchez had assumed responsibility for doing the grilling at their frequent gatherings.

Ezra inhaled deeply, enjoying the succulent odor of meat cooking which made his mouth water. The undercover agent went up to the front door and let himself in without knocking - an act that spoke volumes about just how much his circumstances had changed.

He entered the living room with its great stone fireplace.

JD was the first to spot the late arrival. The young computer genius was in front of Chris' big screen TV, coaching Buck through the finer points of the latest Xbox 360 fantasy war game. "Yeah! That's it, Buck! Finally!" JD shouted loudly and pumped his fist in the air enthusiastically. "Oh hey, Ez! You're here!" JD smiled, his face open and welcoming.

JD was wearing a t-shirt and jean cut-off shorts, and his straight, dark hair was half hidden underneath his Boston Red Sox's ball cap. Ezra inwardly groaned for he knew that JD's cap signified an intention to drag the team into as much of a ball game as a team of seven could have.

He detested team sports. He hadn't developed any skills to play and hated feeling awkward and inadequate. Maude hadn't allowed her baby boy to play sports as a child saying, "Ezra, are you out of your mind? Do you think I'd let you do something that could potentially mar that pretty face of yours?"

Buck looked up at Ezra from where he sat on Chris' sofa. "Come on in, hoss," Buck said enthusiastically with just a hint of desperation. Standish laughed to see the silent, yet eloquent plea for him to rescue the jovial man from anymore of JD's tutelage.

JD caught the look and his face assumed a feigned, hurt expression. "Buck, I don't believe you. You used to be a Navy seal, how hard can this game be?"

Buck snorted, "Well it be whole lot easier without you yammerin' a mile a minute, JD. I can hardly concentrate between your jumping up and down and darn near grabbing the controller out of my hand." Unlike JD, Buck and computer technology didn't always get along, but Buck wasn't likely to admit that to the kid.

Ezra walked up to have a closer look at the screen. After a minute of pretending to study the game, he cleared his throat. "JD, I believe I have ascertained the exact impediment to your tyro's success."

Buck rolled his eyes Ezra's way.

"Huh?" JD asked. "I'm just trying to find out why Buck's having a hard time learning this game."

"Precisely, Mister Dunne." Ezra drawled, his green eyes bright. "The reason Bucklin here has epically failed to focus on learning the finer points of this game is obvious."

"It is?" JD stared expectantly.

Ezra's dimples showed. "There are no women in this game, JD."

JD laughed and slapped his room mate on the back. "True, so true." Buck merely grinned sheepishly before rising from the couch. He spied the bottle of expensive whiskey Ezra held in his hand. "That for me, Ez?" He asked hopefully.

"Not unless you have recently become the leader of our illustrious team. If that is the case, I elect to remain a prudent distance away whilst you inform Mr. Larabee of the new chain of command."

"Well can I just hold it?" Buck said in a false wheedling voice.

Ezra ignored Buck and proceeded towards the sliding screen door that led to the outdoor patio. Not unexpectedly, he found Josiah cooking, looking quite content playing the part of grill master.

Chris was doing some minor repair work on the outside of a window. Devil hovered close by his master, his tale wagging and his eyes bright and inquisitive, as if eager to help in the operation.

The blond leader looked Ezra's way, "Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Ezra." It was a good-natured jab and Ezra took it as such.

Ezra approached Chris. "I trust this will make up for my tardiness," he said, holding out the bottle of fine whiskey.

Chris stopped what he was doing , took it, and whistled. "I reckon' I'll get over it." He turned serious then, "You know you didn't have to do anything but bring yourself, right?"

"Yes, I know that, Chris," Ezra said just as seriously - right before he grinned, flashing his gold tooth and dimples and reminded Larabee that the gift of the whiskey was intended to be shared with the men.

Ezra crossed the patio and headed over Josiah's way while looking about for the other men.

Nathan was lounging comfortably in a hammock, talking on his cellphone. By the sappy expression on the dark medic's face, Ezra correctly surmised that he was on the phone talking with Raine. Farther out, Ezra could see Vin riding his horse at a leisurely pace.

"Brother Ezra, glad you could come," greeted Josiah.

"It's good to be here." Ezra looked over at Nathan who just at that moment raised his head to peer over at Ezra. Ezra gave the medic a two-fingered salute which Nathan returned with a friendly wave before turning his attention back to his phone call.

"Care to don an apron and help cook some food?" Josiah's low voice rumbled.

Ezra clucked his tongue, his green eyes danced like the devil. "A gentleman does not debase himself with menial labor." In blink of an eye, Standish reached out a swift hand and cheekily snagged a piece of chicken from the grill before the giant of a man could swat him.

*******

By high noon the table on Chris' patio was laden down with a feast consisting of burgers, hotdogs, steak, chicken, baked beans, rolls, potato salad and corn on the cob. Pitchers of fresh-squeezed limeade were on the table and a nearby cooler held cold beer and bottled water.

Nathan, JD, Vin, and even Ezra had pitched-in to set the table and lay the food out. Everything was made ready and the men took seats round the table

Chris, appropriately, sat at the head of the table. JD sat across from Buck, and Ezra took a seat across from Vin and Nathan. Josiah took the place at the other end of the table.

Josiah had cut up a small hamburger patty on a plate, then added a small piece of steak and placed it near Devil who was under the table at his master's feet.

The lab eagerly went to town on his share of the food and every now and then, Chris would reach down and absently pet the dog's slick coat. Chris nodded his head at Josiah. "Josiah, you've outdone yourself. Thank you for cooking."

Josiah looked pleased. "My pleasure," he replied.

Chris looked around, "Let's eat boys."

"Wait." Josiah, who had yet to take a chair held up one giant hand and grinned. "I believe the good Lord wants his due too, brothers."

A slew of hands that had been reaching towards the food on the table, reluctantly withdrew.

Josiah looked in satisfaction at the expectant faces staring back at him. "For what we are about to receive, let us be truly thankful," the big man intoned.

A chorus of sincere 'amen's' followed and then the men commenced eating, laughing, and telling stories.

"I got a new joke!" JD exclaimed. "Found this one on the internet."

Ezra heard low groaning.

"Don't you find all your jokes on the internet?" Vin asked.

"Some. Now do you want to hear it, or not?"

"Or not," Vin laughed then sat back to hear the joke.

"Okay. So did ya hear the one about the cowboy who went to church?"

JD didn't seem nonplussed at the six blank stares looking back at him. The young man rubbed his hands together in glee.

"Well, one Sunday a cowboy went to church. When he went inside he saw that he and the preacher were the only ones there. So the preacher asked the cowboy if he wanted him to go ahead and preach. Cowboy said, "I ain't too smart, but if I went to feed my cattle and only one showed up, I'd feed him." The minister was happy and began his sermon. One hour passed, then two hours, then two-and-a-half hours. When the preacher finally finished he walked down and asked the cowboy how he liked the sermon. The cowboy thought for a minute and then he answered slowly, "Well, never had much book learnin' but I reckon if'n I went to feed my cattle and only one showed up, I sure wouldn't feed him all that hay."

Nathan and Josiah looked at each other then burst into hearty guffaws. Vin shook his head, and Buck ducked his head to mute his groan.

"Right, that was funny, right?" JD was laughing at his own joke.

Chris looked at JD and tried to arrange his scowl into a more pleasant expression while Ezra, amused, watched the Team Seven leader.

"What? It was funny," JD insisted.

"Yeah kid, it was funny." Buck said. Then the handsome man grinned devilishly and said, "Now let me tell these boys here something that they'll actually appreciate. Did I ever tell you about my date with those sweet little blonde twins, Candy and Cindy?..."

"No, but I'm sure you will," Ezra drawled. He took a roll and with perfect aim, launched it at Buck's head. The roll smacked Buck upside the demolition expert's head, causing him to cease speaking.

"Well done, Ezra," Chris nodded approvingly.

"Hey, I'm the sharpshooter here," Vin smirked. He snagged a roll and proceeded to pelt Buck with it as well.

Buck looked threateningly in Vin's direction. "Like I was saying -"

As if on cue, the rest of the men picked up rolls and threw them at Buck, thus effectively silencing him and sparing themselves the exaggerated details of Buck's latest romantic encounter.

By 2:00 pm it was hot under the sun, but no one seemed to mind. The food was superb, the fellowship satisfying. Several times Ezra had caught himself looking around the table at the faces of the men with whom he'd thrown in his lot. Despite his lack of religious upbringing, he found himself silently counting his blessings. The men, his brothers, were relaxed, laughing and at peace. He was here, unscathed at the conclusion of another dangerous, undercover assignment. He was as content as he'd ever been in a long time.

Ezra's soul basked in the joy of it, as if it would never come again.

********

Earlier, Vin had broken out the peach cobbler his friend, Nettie

Welles had made for him to share. The older woman was a mother figure to Vin and in some form or another, she'd ended up embracing all of Team Seven, even the reserved Ezra Standish who Nettie affectionately dubbed, "Mr. Fancy Pants."

By 2:30 pm the table resembled the aftermath of a descended plague of locust. Not even a lone hotdog had survived. The members of Team Seven were lounging comfortably about, in various stages of food coma.

Around four o'clock Ezra Standish began contemplating what plausible excuse he could make to explain his need to temporarily absent himself. The men were becoming more animated and Ezra instincts told him that they were getting close to the inevitable announcement of some dreadful sporting game or another that they would try and drag him into.

_Too late_. Ezra groaned. He hadn't been wrong when he'd guessed from the hat JD was wearing that the game would be baseball. JD and Vin had gotten up and disappeared into Chris' garage. When the men emerged they were carrying a large, plastic storage container between them.

They set the container down and Vin began to hand out an odd assortment of miss-matched baseball jerseys and caps. JD looked excited. "I've been lookin' forward to this all day. You guys ready to play some ball?"

Everyone except Ezra enthusiastically responded. Ezra felt mortification rising for young JD Dunne was looking straight at him.

"You'll play outfield ok, Ez?" JD asked. Ezra in the outfield had the most remote, less involved position for a reluctant, novice player.

A dubious proposition if he'd ever heard one. Ezra thought as he regarded JD silently.

He was desperately thinking of arguments and counter-arguments. Finally, finding nothing persuasive he settled on, "When the sanctified dead rise from their graves."

"C'mon, Ezra...we need ya to play...and you like a challenge," JD argued.

"You don't have enough for a team," Ezra replied reasonably.

"With you we have enough to play our way. Besides, compared to what you pulled off in that last case, how hard can playing outfield be?"

"I'd need a glove for that. Regretfully, I don't have one," Ezra answered.

"Not a problem, I've got plenty of gloves." JD began rummaging around in the box. Not finding what he wanted, he tipped it over, spilling the contents. Three aluminum bats and an assortment of gloves spilled out.

Desperation made Ezra abandon logic and go straight for his trump card. "I'm left handed," he replied with an air of finality.

JD grinned. The young man bent over and sorted through the gloves until he found a glove properly made for the right hand. "Here you go." He tossed the glove at Ezra who caught it before it could smack him in the chest.

Ezra looked at the others who were laughing and donning the baseball attire. Josiah's shirt was about two sizes too small for his large frame. He was standing there with a sheepish grin on his face while the others teased each other about their own ill-fitting selections. In the process of trading shirts, no one seemed to notice that Ezra was standing there watching them.

Standish was feeling cornered. He was finally fitting in, enjoying being part of the family. Sometimes the price of membership included the occasional requirement to do something one didn't want to for the sake of family unity.

Playing ball was not something he wanted to do, dreaded it as a matter of fact, but in the long run, what could it hurt, he reasoned. Was his ego that fragile that he'd put it first above the look of joy and enthusiasm in JD's eyes, or the look of camaraderie in Chris'?

For the first time, Ezra noticed Vin Tanner looking at him - a knowing look in the Texan's blue eyes. The long-haired man shook his head softly and mouthed, "You don't have to play."

Ezra turned away, grateful for the understanding.

Just like that he made up his mind. Ezra turned around and smiling with his best game face he said, "Let me look at those shirts, I refuse to put on anything that smells like it hasn't been washed since some person's body last inhabited it."

Chris laughed softly, "Looks like we've got us a game."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for the kind reviews. **

**I apologize for the failed attempt to include the url for the art cover for **_**Stung. **_**Apparently, you can't do that. It is over on my art website along with two other illustrations. **

* * *

**Part Four**

The men walked out a ways into the property at the back of the house. Josiah and JD laid out the bases and Ezra strolled out to the outfield position, his glove dutifully on his hand.

All was made ready and JD enthusiastically called out, "Let's play ball!"

Josiah was pitching. The big man put all his considerable strength behind throwing the ball as if aiming to knock out a demon. Nathan was catching while Vin and Buck had the most strenuous jobs. They were covering all of the bases between just the two of them. Chris and JD would be the first to test their batting skills, with Chris being the first batter up. "Age before skill," JD had said, daring to tease the tough, intimidating man who was his boss. Even after all this time, JD was still in awe of Chris Larabee and teasing him was a rare event.

The corners of Chris' lips quirked upwards as he grabbed the bat out of JD's hands and gave it a couple of test swings. He knew JD was particularly good, having played a bit of college-level ball before he'd been forced to prematurely leave the academic life behind. The young man had the skill to hit the ball farther out than any of his team mates.

Chris readied himself and with a nod to Josiah, took aim as the deadly curveball came flying towards him. The Team Seven leader swung - and missed.

"C'mon, Chris, my dead grandmother has a better swing than that!" Vin shouted.

Chris broke out the infamous Larabee glare as he again took up his batting stance. Josiah pitched again and this time, with unerring accuracy, Chris swung the bat.

Larabee smirked upon hearing the satisfying noise the ball made when it connected with the bat. Quickly the blond leader tossed the bat aside and made a run for first base. Chris could hear JD in the background yelling, "Go! Go! Go!" Larabee ran and as if not wanting to be left out of the action, Devil followed close at his master's heels.

Ezra made a good faith effort to catch the ball, but it was too high and sailed quite easily over his head. The undercover agent ran with speed and agility to recover it, keeping a sharp eye as the baseball landed with a 'thud' on the ground and rolled about 10 yards away from a pile of rusted out junk cars. In the meanwhile, Chris ran to first base, then on to second.

"Ezra, gimme the ball, gimme the ball!" Vin shouted. Ezra finally snatched the ball from the ground and threw it to Vin. Standish's aim was off and the southern man's face grew hot as Vin ran to catch the errant ball. The long-haired Texan caught up with it and hurled it at Buck just as Chris was making his play for third base.

Buck caught the ball and his long legs quickly closed the distance between Chris and home plate. Wilmington had the longer stride, but Chris was the faster runner. The look of sheer determination on the blond leader's face as he ran was the same one he wore when he was taking down a criminal.

Chris dove on to his side and his body began a hard, audible slide towards the base. What ensued was tangle of arms and legs as Buck collided with Chris in a spectacular effort to tag the man before the other could reach the base. "You're ouuut!" Buck crowed, drawing out the word. There was spitting and cursing as the men untangled themselves and stood up. Buck began dancing around, and with his lanky arms and legs, he looked very much like an epileptic chicken. "I Gottcha out, Pard!"

Chris was looking at Buck as though the other man had lost his mind. Then a sly smile spread across the scowling face, and Chris answered back in his mid-western drawl, "You didn't get shit, Bucklin."

"Boys, boys, I'll tell you what's what." Nathan placed his tall, athletic body between the two men. In cases of dispute, it fell to the catcher to make the call and since that happened to be Nathan, Chris and Buck would have little cause to continue arguing as Nathan was considered by all to be the most objective.

Chris folded his arms and Buck stopped his squawking to hear what the man had to say. Nathan looked sheepishly at his boss. "Sorry, Chris. You're out."

Chris shook his head and with a faint grin still on his face, walked away as Buck resumed his squawking. Knowing it was JD up to bat next, the ladies' man called, "Who's the next victim?"

"I'm next at bat, but you're the next victim," JD did his own version of trash talking, complete with a visual. The young man had selected a bat and began twirling it around with one hand in an impressive display of skill before getting into a batter's stance.

Josiah regarded JD with a twinkle in his grey eyes. "Remember son, pride goeth before a fall ."

"Josiah, I got a case of Ben Gay out back if ya need some!" JD taunted back good naturedly.

"How will that help you, son, after this ball knocks you on your ass?" Josiah sagely asked. With that, Josiah let loose his hardest, most wicked curve ball.

JD swung the bat with the full force of his frustrated, never fully realized college-level playing skill. If the sound of the loud crack echoing over the open ballfield was any indication, JD's hit was a powerful one. The ball was going to fly farther and higher than any of them could have imagined.

Ezra, who knew something about JD's abilities regretted not having taken bets on just how far the younger man could hit the ball. One thing Ezra knew for sure: he wasn't going to be catching that ball.

For a moment, all of the men stood still watching the ball fly. Even JD did not immediately commence running, but momentarily watched the ball's progress as it flew high and far past Ezra's head. The sun was shining so bright that it seemed to the men trying to track its progress, that the sun swallowed the ball making it disappear for a sliver of time before it could be seen hurtling earthward until it clearly impacted directly with the heap of rusting car shells.

The young man whooped enthusiastically before he started his run around the bases. Devil, still eager to play, barked excitedly and this time, the happy dog took off running after the ball.

JD flew around the bases and by the time he'd reached third base and looked to see what was going on in the outfield, he realized that Ezra was no longer backing up in anticipation of trying to catch the ball, but instead, was nonchalantly strolling towards the infield without the ball. JD grinned and slowed his pace until he merely jogged to home base.

The young man flung off his cap and he ran his hand through his straight, dark hair. Why didn't Ezra have the ball? Had he not seen where it had landed? JD doubted that - considering how closely everyone had tracked the ball's progress. "Ezra, where's the ball?" he yelled from across the field.

Devil had run up to Ezra, eagerly yipping and wagging his tail as if he wanted to go with the human to fetch the ball. Ezra reached down to pat the animal affectionately on its satiny head. Then he straightened up and looked over his shoulder at the direction of the junk cars. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. No, he wasn't about to endure the hazards of jagged, rusted metal in order to poke around for the missing ball - not when they could just as easily get another. "I believe it's been 'appropriated'," he yelled back.

"Nah, it flew into one of those cars," JD hollered.

_There it shall remain_, Ezra thought. "Seeing how you have a surplus in balls, I recommend you requisition a new one so we can resume playing without delay."

"Ezra, that ball's still in play!" JD yelled.

Ezra gritted his teeth, "Get. Another. Ball."

JD shouted, "It's my lucky ball! Ezra looked at the other players. Chris was swinging the bat in anticipation of being up next again. Nathan had taken advantage of the break and was talking on his cellphone. The Southerner didn't doubt that it was Raine on the other end. Buck and Vin were joking around with each other while Josiah waited patiently for someone to get him a ball.

"C'mon Ezra I'll betcha you've twenty bucks that ball's resting on a seat in plain view."

Ezra's gold tooth flashed. He seriously doubted that was true. He'd seen the ball disappear into the large pile of twisted scrap metal and believed it was most likely concealed from view. However, if JD insisted on enriching his wallet by twenty dollars just for looking, well who was he to deny him?

"We have a deal. I'll look, but do have your legal tender ready," Ezra shouted. He turned and nearly tripped over the excited dog whose wagging tail kept whipping up against his legs. "Let's go, boy. It will be like taking candy from a baby." Ezra turned and began trotting back to the cars, Devil racing ahead of him.

When the dog reached the pile of junk cars, he pawed the front then began circling around back, nose sniffing at the ground. When Ezra was about a yard away, he abruptly drew up short. He didn't know why, but suddenly his senses were sending his mind signals that something wasn't right. Over the years he'd learned to trust his instincts implicitly. He'd get that certain feeling at a meet or during a bust that something was off or that danger lurked nearby. He'd never been wrong before. Never.

So why was he getting that feeling now? Ezra peered intently ahead and saw nothing but the pile of rusted junk cars. "Devil?" Ezra called, but the dog did not emerge from behind the cars. Ezra tried to shake the feeling off and cautiously, he approached the cars.

He carefully placed his hands on a flat surface of one of the cars that was lying smashed on its side. Ezra leaned over to peer into the partially gutted shell. His eyes had to adjust to the considerably darker interior and when they did he saw the decayed remains of what once had been plush, cloth-covered car seats, trash, twisted metal and weeds growing wildly everywhere. His keen eyes swept the view until he spotted a white object. He couldn't believe it. He could actually see part of the ball wedged in a corner, and in the dark interior, some half-concealed, odd shaped object hanging down. Suddenly he stopped cold, and cocked his head to the side. What was that noise?

He instantly drew back when the noise he heard was overtaken by the sound of a sudden howl of pain and fury that could only have come from Devil. The dog began barking frantically and snarling and the sound chilled Ezra to the core.

The undercover agent ran around to the back of the wrecked cars and what he saw made his face pale into an ashen mask right before his features assumed a horrified expression. Ezra came to a temporary dead stop as his mind processed the scene.

In the blink of an eye, Ezra had glimpsed a vision of Devil snapping in angry pain as a steady stream of buzzing bees circled around the dog before alighting on him and sinking their stingers deep into the animal's body. They stung Devil's sensitive nose and as the animal barked madly, some landed on his tongue and stung him there, while others attacked his ears. In the next moment, Ezra watched as a swarm of angry bees seemed to arise straight out of the pile of junked cars and as one, descend upon the dog until his black coat was nothing more than a buzzing mass of bees blanketing him and clogging the animal's ears, nose and throat. _Good Lord!_Ezra was temporarily paralyzed, horrified by the sight of the suffering animal.

Devil was no longer barking madly, but he was on the ground whimpering, clawing the ground with his nails and rolling from side to side in a vain attempt to rid his body of the attacking bees.

Ezra sprang into action and he moved without thinking, motivated by an imperative to get Devil out of there and away from the source of the animal's torment. Ezra quickly stripped the borrowed baseball shirt off his body and began using it to sweep and beat the bees away from the downed dog.

The buzzing noise was hideously loud in Ezra's ears and the detached, calculating part of his brain that was focused on getting the hell out of there noted that more bees were continuing to fly out from the rusted cars. Standish had to stifle his natural urge to yell for help because he realized that doing so would only draw his friends into the same peril he and Devil were presently in.

The bodies of dead bees, whose lives were spent in the act of administering their venom, littered the ground all around Devil. Ezra ignored the disgusting crunching sound his shoes made as he stepped on the dead insects and in one swift movement, Standish bent down and hefted the pitifully whimpering, heavy dog into his arms.

Ezra never felt the first bee that sunk its stinger into his hand, nor the one after that, or the one after that. He was oblivious to the bees that had landed on his bare chest and arms and had subsequently sunk their stingers into his flesh. All around him, angry bees continued to buzz and fly and some even dared to land in Standish's thick, chestnut colored hair.

Meanwhile, Devil was beginning to rally in his arms, snarling and struggling weakly. The dog did not appear to recognize Ezra or know that the arms around him were there for the purpose of saving him. "It's all right, my friend," Ezra murmured as he fought to hold onto the dog. Standish tightened his grip on the animal that weighed a solid 55 pounds and began to run.

Ezra ran, making a mad dash away from the cars as fast as he could while holding Devil. Even as he ran, he knew it was too late. The body he was holding had gone still and limp. Devil's tongue lolled loosely from the open mouth and mucus dripped from the animal's snout. The eyes that had been ringed with madness as Devil had snapped at the bees in vain were now merely empty orbs staring into eternity.

Ezra could see JD and he knew the moment the young man noticed him for the bat dropped out of JD's hand and he screamed, "Chris!" Chris' head snapped up and he instantly started running towards Ezra.

Nathan too heard JD's scream and his eyes tracked JD's line of sight.

As soon as he saw Ezra running with Chris' dog in his arms he threw down his cellphone and began running out into the field. The others quickly ran out as well.

Chris reached Ezra first. "What happened? What the hell happened?" Chris demanded tersely as he lifted Devil from Ezra's arms.

"Bee attack..." Ezra was panting hard though he thought nothing of his being out of breath or the rivulets of sweat that ran down his heated face. It was extremely hot and he'd been running with over 50 pounds of dead weight in both arms, after all. "The baseball..." Ezra wheezed then fell silent.

But Larabee wasn't listening; he was holding the body of his dead dog in his arms and running his hands over the multitude of stingers embedded in Devil's body. Larabee lifted shocked, pained eyes to Nathan and in his grief over the loss of his beloved companion, he failed to immediately notice the many stingers his undercover agent was sporting.

Ezra was becoming aware of an odd and vaguely uncomfortable sensation steadily creeping through his body. He was feeling a horrible prickly sensation in his extremities that made him want to scratch his skin to get at the source of the itch. His throat felt strange and his tongue overly large as he tried, with great difficulty, to swallow his saliva. Now that he was no longer encumbered by Devil's dead weight, he found it odd that it seemed to be getting harder to pull in air rather than easier.

Ezra was not consciously aware of the fact that he had wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to soothe himself. Something was wrong. His body felt "off". He had no idea why, but he had a strong sense of impending doom. It was as if the very rhythm of his beating heart had shifted to something foreign. His heart seemed to beat along to words that declared, _something'swrongsomething'swrongsomething'swrong. _

"He's gone, Chris. I'm so sorry," Ezra heard Nathan say compassionately. Chris shifted Devil's body in his arms and looked up. The look in the man's eyes was fathomless, but still Ezra felt the unspoken disbelief, grief and rage swirling in those depths so keenly that it temporarily muted his rising physical discomfort.

Somehow Ezra perceived Nathan asking him a question, but he found he could not speak. An intense, fiery pain was racing through his body and had settled with a vice-like grip in his chest. It squeezed him until he thought his heart would burst from its cavity. The growing agony was so great that he was overcome by a sickening wave of dizziness that dropped him to his knees.

The following pain that ripped through his guts sent him all the way into the dirt, leaving him to writhe in distress. He opened his mouth to call Nathan's name but again no intelligent speech came out, only a painful-sounding wheezing noise. His eyes widened and his hands clutched his throat as he began choking.

Too late, Ezra realized that his throat was swelling and the narrow channel was becoming blocked. He was fighting to draw precious oxygen into his lungs and every breath was an agony and every attempt was becoming more and more an exercise in futility. His body spasmed helplessly and Ezra felt unmitigated terror surge through him. _Nathan, help me!_

"Call 9-1-1 NOW!" Nathan bellowed. "Ezra! Ezra!" the medic dropped to his knees beside Ezra and through eyes growing frighteningly dim, Ezra saw the dark, compassionate eyes looking down at him with an odd mixture of worry and calm assurance. A gentle hand rested against the fiery skin on his face, keeping his head turned towards Nathan's. "Look at me, Ezra. Stay with me, help is coming." Miraculously, through the fog of his pain, Ezra heard Nathan's words.

The painful vice around his chest tightened. Ezra's last thought right before his eyes rolled back into his head and his body went slack was, _Oh God, I'm dying...I can't do this. Nathan, please..._

Chris was right beside Nathan. The blond reached out and placed a strong, comforting hand on Ezra's shoulder, but the unconscious man was unaware of it. The blond leader was reeling and he barked out harshly, "What's happening to him, Nathan?"

"He's in severe anaphylactic shock." The medic looked up and he looked for Buck. "Buck, get my bag!"

Buck hesitated, lost in a tragic memory from his childhood. For a moment, Buck was his 12-year old self watching his good friend die right in front of him from a bee sting. "Get my bag! Now Buck!" Nathan screamed. Buck snapped out of his reverie and began running to Nathan's car where he knew the medic always kept his medical bag. Wilmington had known exactly what ailed Ezra before Nathan had answered Chris. He also realized exactly what medicine Nathan needed in order to treat anaphylactic shock.

"Chris, bring me some blankets, please," Nathan asked in a low voice. Chris got to his feet. When Nathan was in medic mode, everyone jumped to do his bidding, including Chris Larabee. The Team Seven leader kept his eyes averted from where he knew Devil's body lay, but when he rose to his feet he couldn't help but see that his faithful dog's body was gone.

Chris looked around and noticed that Vin Tanner was also conspicuously absent. A strong feeling of gratitude swept through him. Vin had his back. There was no doubt in Chris' mind that the sensitive Texan had moved Devil's body out of his sight. Chris headed back towards the house to get the requested blankets.

Nathan couldn't show it, but he was growing completely alarmed. Ezra's efforts to breathe were accompanied by tortured wheezing but the sounds were growing rapidly fainter as the body that fought and heaved beneath his arms, stilled. Ezra's lips were blue. The need for CPR was imminent. Ezra's pulse had slowed drastically and the weak beat started to flutter ominously. Nathan faced the grim realization that Ezra's throat would very soon close all the way making a field tracheotomy an absolute necessity. Anxiety gripped Nathan and he looked for Buck. Where the hell was Buck with his goddamn bag?

Nathan was aware of Josiah Sanchez standing over him. The large man had been the one to call 9-1-1 and after that, he'd started praying silently as he watched Ezra suffering on the ground. His big body fairly shook with the frustration of not being able to help. How could this be happening? How could an innocent day of fellowship end up with Ezra lying on the ground fighting to stay alive? There was no answer that could ever make any sense to Sanchez, and he didn't waste time praying for understanding. "ETA of the ambulance is approximately three minutes," Josiah advised in a low voice.

"If Buck doesn't get here with that bag then it won't matter 'cause Ezra will be brain-dead!" Nathan answered, his voice tinged with bitter anxiety.

As if he'd heard, Buck ran up, his hands clutching Nathan's medical bag tightly. Panting, Wilmington hastily set the bag down and waited for Nathan to administer the epinephrine he knew would save the Southerner's life. But when Nathan reached in and pulled out something, it was not an Epi-pen filled with life-saving medicine. Instead, the medic pulled out a surgical knife and sterilized tubing sealed in plastic.

"What are you doing?" Buck cried. "Why aren't ya giving him a shot of epinephrine?"

"Because I don't have any," Nathan replied tightly. Nathan's body radiated tension as he deftly located the precise spot on Ezra's neck between his Adam's apple and the top of his breastbone. "Forgive me, Ezra." The medic's hands were steady as he took the knife and made an incision, cutting through tissues and muscles in Ezra's neck. Carefully, Nathan continued to cut, reaching all the way to Ezra's windpipe. Then Nathan removed the tubing from the plastic and began to insert one end into the bloody opening he had just made.

Satisfied that Ezra was getting oxygen, Nathan pulled out his stethoscope and listened to Ezra's failing heart.

Chris had returned bearing two heavy quilts in his arms. Nathan gave Chris a grateful look. "Chris, I need you to bunch that quilt up and place it underneath Ezra's hips." Chris complied and had barely placed the other blanket over Ezra when the mild-mannered medic begun swearing hoarsely. "His heart stopped. Hold this tube steady, Chris." Larabee carefully took the tubing and held it steady as Nathan moved into position. The medic placed one hand over the other and began pumping Ezra's chest rhythmically.

Off in the faint distance the welcome strains of a wailing ambulance siren could be heard. The siren grew piercingly louder, until the sound that disturbed the air's tranquility was right at Chris' ranch. The wailing sound ceased abruptly and doors slammed loudly. Nathan breathed a sigh of relief but kept pumping Ezra's chest, even as he saw JD running around the corner, two EMT's in tow with a gurney.

Like a well-choreographed ballet, Nathan relinquished Ezra's care to the EMT's and slowly got to his feet. He wiped the sweat that had gathered at his brow and almost groaned with the relief of having some of the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders. Nathan turned uncompromising eyes to Chris. "I'm riding with him."

Larabee nodded once. "We'll be right behind you." The taciturn man then clasped Nathan's forearm in a brief warrior's grip. "You did good, Nathan."

"Thanks." Nathan forced himself to breathe deeply as he trotted after the gurney where Ezra laid strapped in. Only later would he wonder if Ezra would agree with Chris' assessment if the wily undercover agent regained consciousness only to find that he had irreversible brain damage.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you for the kind reviews! **

**Part Five**

Chris Larabee turned off his cellphone and walked purposely back inside the doors of Denver Memorial Hospital. Somewhere in the last hour Larabee had begun to distance himself from the dark brooding and futile blaming of himself and had begun to remember the responsibilities he had as an ATF team leader. He was in charge of these men and right now, this group of men needed his leadership so that they could all be there to lend their collective strength to their gravely ill seventh member.

The first thing Larabee did was go outside and call his boss, Judge Orrin Travis and inform him of the status of his agent. Judge Travis had been shocked and saddened to hear of what had happened. He'd ordered Chris to keep him informed with regular updates and he'd readily agreed before wrapping up the call and riding the elevator up to the fourth floor.

The waiting room for the ICU was a world away from the one in the emergency room. Gone were the hard, plastic, green chairs and cold tiled floor. This room was tastefully decorated in subtle, soothing colors. The comfortably padded couches and chairs were ergonomically designed with adjustable backs while the floor was covered with a plush rug of beautiful design.

Chris stood at the entrance for a moment, taking stock of his men. He swept the room with his eyes, stopping to assess each man's well-being with his steely gaze. Josiah and Nathan were in a corner speaking quietly with each other, while Vin was slouched in a chair watching CNN on the widescreen TV. JD was reading the latest issue of _Computer Now._ Chris' gaze fell last on Buck and he frowned.

To the outsider, Larabee's oldest friend had all the appearance of a man who was holding it together under difficult circumstances. Buck was by the window staring aimlessly out and alternating pacing back and forth. Chris, who knew all of Buck's tells, could discern that Wilmington had something more on his mind besides Ezra. The man was vainer about his hair than the undercover agent, but Buck kept incessantly combing his hair then running a hand through the thick, dark locks. Larabee's oldest friend looked haunted and struggling not to show it.

Larabee strode over. "Walk with me, Bucklin." Startled, Buck didn't say anything but he followed Larabee as the man led him over to the elevator banks. He didn't ask where they were going when a car came, but followed Chris into it.

Larabee's destination was the hospital cafeteria where he bought cups of coffee for them both. Chris led the way over to an empty corner table and the two men sat down and sipped their steaming cups of hot coffee in companionable silence for awhile. At length Chris looked at Buck. "You okay now?"

Buck barked a short laugh, but there was no joy in the sound. "Why shouldn't I be? I ain't on my deathbed like Ezra."

"Neither is he," Chris retorted sharply.

Buck looked away, a crushed expression on his face. Chris sighed. This wasn't going well. He tried again, "Buck, you think Ezra's going to die?"

Buck didn't immediately answer. Chris waited patiently while he watched a myriad of emotions pass over his friend's face. Fear, regret, guilt were all displayed on the downcast features. Finally, Buck looked Chris straight in the eye and replied softly, "Yeah, I do." There was regret in those kind eyes, a sorrow for believing the worst and grief for having a reason to believe that the worst was true.

"Why?"

"Ronald Strickland."

The name meant nothing to Chris. "Who?"

"Ronny..." Buck's gaze drifted to a place somewhere over Chris's shoulder and Chris had to bend his head to catch the whispered name. Buck cleared his throat before he began speaking again, his voice low and stained with the memory of some childhood hurt. A ghost from the past had him firmly in its grip.

"Ronny was my friend; my best friend in the seventh grade." Intense, dark eyes caught and held Chris' in silent communication of the truth that Buck could not bring himself to say aloud: _He was my __only__ friend. The one boy who was willing to be the best friend of a prostitute's son._

"You know, I wasn't always the somber, monk-like man I am today." Buck's mustache quirked upwards as the corner of his lip curled into a half smile that didn't quite hide the pain in his eyes. Chris rewarded the attempt at levity with a brief, but genuine half smile of his own then waited patiently for Buck to continue.

The ladies' man sat quietly for a moment, studying his folded hands. "One day I talked Ronny into skipping school with me. It was one of those beautiful spring days that no two boys growing up in the inner city could ignore. He and I made a plan to spend the day hangin' out in this little city park, smoke a little weed, relax." Buck gave a low, laugh. "Ronny was a stoner, but he was a good kid, you know?" He paused and ran a hand absently through his dark hair. "Anyway we got to the park all right, only instead of two kids having a little fun skipping school and getting high, my friend got stung by a goddamn bee and ten minutes later he was dead."

And then Buck revealed to his long-time friend the memory that had first burned his young mind with shame, and then lain buried within for so long: "At first I thought he was just playing around," he shook his head sadly. "I can't believe I laughed at him; told him to cut it out. I found out too late that he wasn't playing. I'll never forget the way he was choking and clawing at his throat. I was alone with Ronny and he died in agony in my arms." Buck's voice was a whisper now. "I ran away, Chris. Like a pansy ass coward, I left my friend lying dead under a tree in that park."

The tormented man closed his eyes and when he next opened them, Chris was nearly taken aback by the degree of shame showing in Wilmington's eyes.

Chris looked at his good friend. He was the one who knew Buck better than anyone else, but he hadn't known that. Now he understood Buck's heightened fear that Ezra would die and he understood that Buck's heart carried the scar of that traumatic event and what he perceived as his own act of cowardice. Damn! What persuasive, eloquent words could he say to erase the pain? That was Ezra's gift, not his. Chris sighed. He had only the truth to offer and he hoped that it would be enough. "You were a scared kid then, Buck. From where I'm standing that's a world apart from the man I know whose watched my back and saved my life more times than I can count. Whatever you did wrong that day, I'm pretty sure that Ronny would've forgiven you if he was the friend you say he was." Chris fixed Buck with a hard questioning stare. "Well, was he?"

Buck looked thoughtful. Eventually he answered with a soft sigh, "Hell yeah, he was."

"Then let it go." They were words easier said then done, but then again, this lingering guilt over the past was so unlike Buck's laid back, optimistic nature. Maybe he just needed to talk it out so he could finally move on. Ezra's recovery would surely be the final thing that would heal Buck soul of the painful memory, but if Ezra died...

As if he could read Chris' mind, Buck started to say, "Ezra - "

"Isn't Ronny," Chris answered firmly. "I know it's bad, Buck, but Ez isn't giving up and he's counting on you to do the same."

Silence. Then, "I hear you, Chris."

"Good."

"But -"

"No buts. Ezra doesn't have time for that." Chris was not normally a tactile man, but he didn't hesitate to clasp his friend on the shoulder. "He was alive an hour ago and he's alive now. Let's just take it hour by hour from here on out and you'll see, he ain't runnin' out on us."

The look in Chris' eye told Buck everything he needed to know: If the pain-in-the-ass Southerner had any plans to leave this world prematurely, then Chris would personally go down to the very depths of hell and drag Ezra's green-eyed, fast-talking, Southern ass back.

Chris and Buck entered the ICU waiting room together. Buck made a beeline over to JD. With a slight smile on his face, the handsome man sat down next to him, but not before he snatched the magazine playfully out of JD's hands and swatted him the head with it.

From across the room, Vin caught Chris' attention. _He okay, Cowboy?_ He asked with only one quirk of an eyebrow. Chris understood Vin's wordless communication perfectly and he nodded his head after he glanced at Buck horse playing around with JD. _Buck's gonna be just fine, and so's Ezra._

*******

Twenty minutes after Chris and Buck had returned to the ICU waiting room, an attractive young doctor of East Indian ancestry came out to speak with them. Her long black hair was pulled back in a thick, braided ponytail that dangled down her back. Under different circumstances, Buck Wilmington would have been making plans to ask her out and fantasizing about just how she would look with all that beautiful hair flowing loose around her shoulders - but not now. "Are you here for Mr. Standish?" she asked in a lightly accented voice.

Instantly, the men rose to their feet. Each man automatically scanned the doctor's face in the hopes of gauging Ezra's condition by her expression.

"Please, sit down, gentlemen. My name is Neha Shah and I am Mr. Standish's attending physician while he's in ICU."

"How is he?" Chris asked.

"I'm sure you are well aware by now that Mr. Standish suffered a severe case of anaphylactic shock brought on by numerous bee stings. Was Mr. Standish aware that he was extremely allergic to bee venom? Had he ever been stung before?"

Nathan shook his head. "No Ma'am. I don't think he'd ever been stung before and I'm sure he would know if he were allergic."

"I see. I understand from speaking to Nurse Wakefield that you all are ATF agents. According to Miss Wakefield's description, you must be the team medic."

"Yes, that's right. I'm Nathan Jackson. This is our team leader, Chris Larabee. Chris holds Ezra's medical power of attorney. You have it on file here," Nathan added sounding somewhat anxious.

"I'm aware of that, Mr. Jackson. There's no problem with getting information on Mr. Standish's condition," she hastened to assure.

Nathan visibly relaxed.

Chris took over finishing the introductions and then fixed the doctor with a firm stare. "Is he going to be all right?"

"Mr. Standish is currently under heavy sedation and his condition is still critical. As you know, when he was brought here initially he presented with the most serious symptoms of anaphylactic shock. He was in respiratory and cardiac arrest. He also had a host of other symptoms such as gastrointestinal upset, hives, and severe swelling of his throat and tongue. He's still being treated with massive doses of epinephrine, bronchodilators, corticosteroids and H2 receptor blockers to combat the symptoms which in rare cases, can reoccur. More often than not, patients respond well to this protocol. The symptoms subside and they are able to go home within three or four hours."

Chris' eyes narrowed into cold pieces of ice. "And in Ezra's case?"

The young doctor looked with understanding at Chris Larabee as she pushed a non-existent stray hair back behind her ear. "His symptoms are decreasing much slower than normal. His breathing is still being supported artificially and we are keeping a close eye on the tachycardia."

Buck exchanged a sharp glance with Chris. "What exactly is that?"

"Tachycardia means that his heart is beating rapidly. The medication, at the necessary high dosage, causes a very high increase in both heart rate and blood pressure. Right now his heart is beating at 200 beats per minute."

Josiah observed the unhappy look on Nathan's face. "Has Ezra regained consciousness at all?" he asked, the furrows in his brow deepening.

"No, and right now, with the amount of adrenaline coursing through Mr. Standish's system, you don't want him to. Without the sedation, he'd be experiencing an extreme amount of discomfort."

Chris, looking weary to his core, asked the question on everyone's mind. "What happens next, Dr. Shah?"

"Once the bronchial spasms relax, we'll need to wait for the epi to work its way out of his system. When that happens the tachycardia will naturally begin to subside. I'll allow the sedation to wear off and Mr. Standish will regain consciousness."

"Then he'll be all right?" JD asked softly. The youngest team member hesitated and licked his lips nervously. "There isn't anything else...?" His voice trailed off as if not wanting to ask directly the question that was on his mind.

"Do you mean will Mr. Standish have suffered any brain damage from hypoxemia? Right now, I can't answer that. We'll perform a brain scan once he regains consciousness to help make that assessment. We have a saying in my culture, 'do not buy the troubles that belong to someone else.'"

"Reckon' I've heard a version of that from time to time," Vin remarked.

"Let me make this clear, I really do fully expect Mr. Standish to make a complete recovery though he'll have to take certain medical precautions for the rest of his life now that it's clear he's severely allergic to bee venom."

Nathan nodded his head in sad understanding at exactly what that would mean for Ezra, and he felt his heart sink like a stone though he spoke evenly enough to the others. "I'll be sure and stock my bag with epinephrine, and Ezra will have to carry around his own dosage in a self-injectable device we call an 'epi-pen.''' The medic wisely kept his own counsel regarding the unfortunate reality that in all likelihood, according to ATF regulations, Ezra would be permanently finished as an undercover agent. Nathan didn't always understand Ezra but what he thoroughly got was that Ezra's work meant everything to him, just as being a medic and caring for the well-being of his colleagues did to him. Having his chosen profession taken away from him in the blink of an eye was a blow that Nathan was not entirely sure the Southerner could take.

Fearing the others would read something in his eyes, Nathan looked away - but not before Vin's eyes caught his troubled expression.

"When can we see Ezra?" Chris asked.

"Right now, but I'd like to keep it to one visitor at a time, ten minutes max. When I start seeing a definite decrease in the most serious symptoms, then he can have two visitors at a time in the ICU. Who would like to visit first?"

Chris Larabee looked around at the faces of five men, and everyone of them expressing a desire to sit with Ezra and offer him their support and encouragement. JD looked nervous as hell, but still clearly wanting to see for himself that Ezra would survive his ordeal. Nathan, he knew, would want to talk to the unconscious man in a calm, reassuring manner about his condition in the hope of somehow lessening Ezra's fear. Josiah would most likely impart words of wisdom to the man whom he sometimes regarded as a son. Or what about Vin? The Texan would no doubt, sit silently by Ezra's bedside, lending his strength in his own quiet way.

But it was to Buck that Chris looked first, and Buck whom he would choose. Despite JD's lingering guilt-driven need, hell despite his own, it was Buck who most needed to see Ezra. The others looked at Chris expectantly.

Chris made his choice known saying softly, "Go on, Buck."

The grateful expression in Buck's eyes expressed more than his uttered, "Thanks, Cowboy."

Dr. Shah escorted Buck to the glass-enclosed cubicle where Ezra lay unconscious in the hospital bed. Buck stopped cold, momentarily unable to reconcile the figure in the bed with the sophisticated, smooth Southern gentleman that was Ezra Standish.

Except for a drape covering his hips, he was naked and Buck could see the red, swollen flesh and unsightly hives covering Ezra's sensitive skin while numerous leads, with their black, spidery wires, were secured to his chest. In a perverse way, Buck realized it was fortunate that Standish was too ill to be disturbed by what he would have considered, a humiliating assault upon his dignity.

Standish lay hooked to a machine that was forcing air into his compromised lungs. IV drips were going into both arms, and other tubes were going places Buck didn't want to think about. In truth, Buck was not overly bothered by the many devices attached to Ezra as he'd seen them all before. At one time or another, they'd each had occasions to require such aid, including himself. It was the fact that Ezra's eyes were taped shut and despite the fact that he was being kept unconscious via heavy sedation, but his body was constantly twitching, his arms and legs trembling from muscles over stimulated from too much adrenaline. From time to time, Ezra's head would jerk and his back would arch from the bed. It was as though Ezra's body was at war, trying to rid itself of the adrenaline overload.

The heart monitor showed that Ezra's heart was beating way too rapidly and the bleeping sound it made, along with hissing of the ventilator, seemed so loud to Buck's ears. Standish didn't scare easily, but even the smooth Southerner had his limits. He could only imagine how frightened Ezra would be if he were to wake up alone, disoriented, and in the dark with all that noise around him.

Buck forced himself to sit in the chair beside Ezra's bed. Then carefully, he leaned over and took Ezra's refined hand in his. "Oh, Hoss," he said sadly. He forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. "It's Buck here. I know you're in a bad way right now, but the doc says you're gonna be fine." Suddenly, Buck's eyes twinkled. "Speaking of fine...how come you always get the beautiful docs? Now my advice to you is to hurry up and get your ass out of this bed 'cause between the two of us, she's bound to pick the better lookin' one and right now, that ain't you."

There was no response from Ezra, only the constant spasming of his body.

Buck's joking nature faltered and he gripped the suddenly lax hand tighter as he spoke softly, "I really need ya to get well. So does JD. Chris too. They ain't saying much, but I know they blame themselves for you being here. I know what that's like. See, when I was a kid I talked my best friend into skipping school and going to the city park. He got stung by a bee and he died in my arms. I know you don't blame JD or Chris, I just want you to know that you're gonna get well and we're all waiting for you to wake up."

Having said everything that he wanted, Buck carefully lay the hot hand down upon the cool sheet. He stood up and with one last comforting pat, exited Ezra's cubicle leaving his friend to the darkness and the bleeps and hisses of the medical equipment. 


	6. Chapter 6

**LOL - has Ezra turned a corner or will things get worse? C'mon readers, let's find out! : )**

* * *

**Part Six**

"Chris?"

Larabee's eyes snapped open at the sound of the familiar, feminine voice calling his name. He found himself looking straight into a pair of beautiful blue-green eyes belonging to one, Mary Travis. "Mary?" Chris sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes then glanced at his watch. It was 11:00 pm, later than he thought. A whole two hours had passed since he'd taken his turn to visit Ezra. JD had followed Buck the hour after Wilmington had and then Chris had taken his turn.

"What are you doing here?" Larabee instantly regretted the question knowing that Mary's father, Orrin Travis, must have informed his daughter as to what had transpired over at his ranch.

Mary's expression was caring, concerned. "My father told me what happened. I'm so sorry, Chris. Thank God, Vin told me that Ezra is going to be okay."

Chris nodded his head. "He will."

"May I sit down?"

Chris mentally kicked himself. There was something about the widow with her golden hair and hour-glass figure that made him forget himself and who he was - which wasn't entirely rational since he hadn't been that morose, borderline suicidal man for a very long time. "Please," Larabee made a welcoming gesture towards the seat next to him.

"I would have come hours ago had I known," Mary gently admonished.

"Wasn't thinkin' about calling you." Mary winced and this time, Chris cursed himself the fool. "What I mean is, I wasn't thinking about calling anybody - not even the Judge. Everything happened so fast. Devil died, Ezra wasn't far behind. This happened on my property, on my watch."

Mary nodded. "I understand. Chris, is there anything I can do?"

"You're already doing it." Larabee looked around and saw none of the other men. "Did you see JD and Buck?"

"I did. Josiah made them go home. Josiah and Nathan are getting coffee and Vin left to take care of something."

The muscle in Chris' cheek twitched and an anguished look appeared briefly in his eyes before disappearing. "Devil," he murmured. He sighed. "He's gone to make some arrangements until I can take care of it myself."

"I know how much he meant to you - "

"That's right and if you don't mind, I'm just not in the mood to talk about him right now," Chris stated flatly.

"All right, Chris." Mary placed a warm, strong hand on Chris's arm and squeezed it gently.

Chris rubbed the back of his neck. "So did Josiah say how Ezra's doing?"

"According to Nathan, the anaphylactic shock symptoms are subsiding, although slowly, and the medications are working their way out of his system. He's still under sedation, and that's pretty much all he knows." Mary glanced at her watch. "It's late, will you be staying?"

"Yes, I'm staying, and in the morning, someone else will be here. Ezra waking up alone ain't gonna happen."

"No, I don't suppose it will," Mary murmured. Her sea-green eyes looked at Chris with compassion and more than a little of the unspoken, carefully restrained love she held for the complex man. Gracefully, she rose to her feet. "I need to be going now. Billy's at Mrs. Potter's and I need to pick him up. Gloria sends her love to all of you, especially Ezra."

A pained expression crossed Larabee's face. "Tell Billy I'm sorry, but I won't be able to take him fishing tomorrow as we'd planned. I promise, when Ezra's feelin' better I'll make it up to him."

"I'll tell him."

Chris remembered his manners and before she could depart and leave him feeling bereft of her presence, he rose. "Let me walk you out."

Mary smiled. "I'd like that."

The two walked out of the hospital and into the parking lot out to Mary's car.

Mary paused by the car door. "I'll call you later - to see how Ezra's doing."

"Mary..." Chris's mouth went dry, then slowly he leaned over and his lips met those of the beautiful blonde woman in a gentle kiss. Mary kissed him back. "Thank you."

Mary didn't speak, but her eyes sparked with an internal light as she opened the door and got into her car.

Chris didn't linger to watch Mary's car exit the parking lot, but turned and strode back into the hospital.

*******

The next two days were long ones for the six men who took turns waiting anxiously for their seventh to improve enough to leave ICU. During that time, Ezra remained on the ventilator and Dr Shah kept him under sedation in the medically induced coma.

Saturday eased into Sunday and that morning, Judge Orrin Travis stopped by to check on his agent. The older man found Chris Larabee and Josiah Sanchez camped out the waiting room looking tired. Orrin sighed. It was never an easy thing when one of the seven was seriously hurt or ill. This group of men had come together and formed a family, and like any family, they cared for each other while still having to carry on with their jobs.

Josiah returned Judge Travis' gaze and unfolded his large body from the couch where he'd been sitting. "Good morning, Judge Travis."

Travis ambled over. "How's Ezra doing?"

Larabee appreciated having Judge Travis as his boss. He was a busy man and it spoke well of him to have personally come down to check on Standish on a Sunday morning. "He's still on the ventilator, still unconscious. They don't know about brain damage yet..." Chris rubbed a hand over his lightly stubbled chin. God, it was time to go home for a shave and some fresh clothes.

"It's a hell of a thing," Travis remarked. His manner tended towards the brusque side, but when it came to these men, the brusqueness tended to be tempered with a more paternal side. The men of Team Seven consistently gave their all. They went above and beyond the call of duty, and with them he'd seen more than his share of hospital rooms and men even younger than his own sons, broken and hurting.

"Tell me about it, sir."

Travis sighed, "Chris...I know a little about what's in Ezra's future."

"Meaning?" Chris replied just a tad sharply.

"Relax, Chris. What I mean is that Evie's sister Alice is allergic to bee venom. To this day she wears an ID bracelet and carries an epi-pen for emergencies."

"And what you are trying to say is that Ezra can't do either one and still be an undercover agent, can he?" Chris ignored the warning look Josiah sent his way, and turned a stone-hard expression on his boss that would have had any man less stout than the judge, quaking in his boots.

If Travis was taken aback by his subordinate's tone, he didn't show it. "I didn't say that, but you know that it's unlikely that he'll be cleared medically." Travis paused. "I suggest we cross that bridge when we come to it." He stood up and Chris rose with him. "In the meantime, I'm going to check-in on my best undercover agent."

When Judge Travis finished seeing Ezra, he spoke again with Chris and Josiah. This time his manner was one of regret. "I need my team back in the office Monday. If Ezra's not out of ICU by then, bring me a workable schedule so that things at the office and things here can be covered."

"Will do, sir. Thanks for coming down."

Thus ended the first of the Sunday morning visitors.

Early afternoon found JD, Nathan and Vin in the waiting room. Dunne and Jackson talked quietly for a time, but Vin hadn't said much. He was too busy pretending not to be observing Nathan. Tanner's keen eyes confirmed for him what he'd sensed earlier - that the medic seem to be holding back on something. Vin made up his mind to find out exactly what but before he could, Nettie Welles and her niece, Casey appeared.

JD's face had lit up at the sight of Casey and the two of them had gone to seek some privacy as Dunne nervously explained to his girlfriend just what had happened and his part in it. The sensitive girl hugged JD tightly. "It's terrible what happened, but I don't think he'd ever blame you for him being attacked by a bunch of bees."

JD shrugged, relieved that Casey didn't blame him. "I can't help but think how I'd feel if that happened to _you _and someone who knew you didn't want to do something, made you and you got hurt. I don't think I could forgive them very easily."

Casey pressed a chaste kiss to JD's lips. "If Aunt Nettie heard you say that, she'd say, "Son, ain't a man alive can make Mr. Fancy Pants do something' that he ain't a mind to do."

JD laughed when he heard his girl's perfect imitation of her aunt's voice. "Your Aunt is a pretty smart woman." JD kissed Casey back, glad in his heart that she was there.

When the pair walked back, Nettie was just emerging from Ezra's cubicle. With a creaky sigh, she sat down next to Vin, a grim expression on her face. "Stars and garters, he sure looks a sight. And where 'bouts is that boy's momma?" she asked softly.

"We don't know. The only person who does can't tell us just yet." Vin's voice sounded rough and his long curls hadn't seen a comb in a few hours.

"Knowing Maude, it's probably better for Ezra that she doesn't see him like that."

Nettie clucked her tongue, as if she'd just heard so much nonsense, but in the end, she didn't deny Vin's assertion. She had met Maude Standish and while she'd dubbed her dashing son, 'Mr. Fancy Pants,' she could think of no suitable nickname to adequately describe the woman who had said often enough that, 'appearances are everything.'

Nettie took a good look at the man she thought of as a son. Vin's face bore a peculiar expression and Nettie guessed it was part bitter disapproval that the only one of the seven to have a living mother had to be the one who was consistently MIA when her son needed her the most. Nettie reached out and patted Vin on the arm. "Why don't you come out to my place and I'll fix you up some lunch? You look like you could use it."

Vin turned tired, blue eyes on the old woman. "Thank you, Nettie. I might just do that."

Nettie got to her feet as Casey came to her side. "If you don't make it to lunch, call us and let us know how he's doing."

"Will do," Vin assured them, and with that, Nettie's and Casey's departure ended the second wave of visitors that Sunday.

*******

By Sunday night, all six men were once again congregating in the ICU waiting room. The men were frustrated by the slow progress Ezra seemed to be making, and apprehensive about having to head back to work on Monday. Nathan had stressed the positives and reminded the band of brothers that according to Dr. Shah, Ezra _was _getting better and the medications were leaving his system, albeit very slowly.

But still, despite Nathan's words, Vin couldn't shake the feeling that the medic was holding out on them. When the sharpshooter saw Nathan get up and head to one of the corner vending machines, Vin got up and followed him.

Vin directly addressed what was on his mind.

"I been watchin' you, Nathan. You got something on your mind that you're not saying. If it has to do with Ezra, we all got a right to know, don't you think?"

Nathan lowered his head and closed his eyes. He should have known that he wouldn't be able to hide his emotions and that the others, especially someone as perceptive as Tanner, would be able to tell that something additional was bothering him.

Nathan raised his head and looked at Vin. "It's not going to make the situation better for anyone, especially for Ezra once he regains consciousness."

"Ain't your call, Nate," the Texan drawled softly.

Nathan bristled. Was the Texan implying that he was trying to play God and control the situation? "Do you want to be the one to tell Ezra he's finished as an undercover agent?" he hissed angrily. The medic looked again at Vin and all he saw staring back at him were the steady, blue, guileless eyes he'd always known. But now those eyes were looking at him with hurt, shocked sadness.

"Shit!" was all Vin said.

Nathan blew out a breath of air and the tension vanished. "Yeah. I - I think Ezra's finished as an undercover agent. I don't see how in hell the ATF will ever clear him medically to do that kind of work with his medical status now. But it's not my call. What if I told Ezra that and I was wrong?"

"Do you think you're wrong?"

"No."

Damn. There was nothing else to do but wait.

*******

At 7:00 am Monday morning, Dr. Shah received Ezra Standish's latest blood test results and was currently reading them. Earlier, she'd been pleased to see the bronchial-spasms ease and then cease altogether. The severe swelling of Standish's throat and tongue had finally subsided enough to remove him from the ventilator. The machine that had been breathing for him had been replaced by a cannula supplying oxygen via his nostrils.

There were other improvements as well. The red, swollen flesh and unsightly, irritating hives that had covered Standish's skin had drastically reduced. Subsequently, he'd been dressed in a hospital gown and covered with a full sheet and blanket. Gone too was the tape that held his eyelids shut. When Standish woke up, it wouldn't be into a dark, frightening place.

The blood tests the doctor held confirmed that there had been a continued reduction in the amount of epinephrine in her patient's system corresponding to the lessening of the symptoms of anaphylactic shock. This lowering epinephrine level had prompted the doctor to begin cutting back on Standish's level of sedation. In an hour or two Standish should start to regain consciousness and then she would be able to assess him for brain damage.

All of these developments should have been the harbinger of improved health for Standish and good news for his friends; however, Dr. Shah grew concerned as she stared at the lab test results, then back at the heart monitor display. Shah frowned at the reading. Was the machine malfunctioning? She manually took Ezra's blood pressure then took out her stethoscope to listen to Standish's heart.

What she heard through her stethoscope did not please her.

Standish's heart rate, which had been beating at 200 beats per minute in the ER, had not seen any corresponding decrease in response to the decreasing levels of epinephrine that had been gradually leaving his system. Instead of beating at 200 beats per minute, her patient's heart was now racing along at an alarming 220 beats per minute.

"Get me 125 milligrams of Cardiazem."

The nurse next to Dr. Shah wiped the sweat from Ezra's perspiring face as she looked at the heart monitor. "Yes Doctor. Shall I also page the on-call Cardiologist?"

"Yes. Do you know who's on duty?"

"I believe it's Doctor Peterson."

"Good." Shah approved. Doctor Samuel Peterson was a highly-skilled, yet laid back man with a sense of humor that matched her own temperament. She had a feeling that was exactly what the handsome stranger lying unconscious in the bed would need in the coming days. The irregular way Standish's heart was beating seemed to indicate that the organ had developed an arrhythmia, but Dr. Shaw suspected that it was not related directly to neither the anaphylactic shock, nor the massive amounts of epinephrine he'd been injected with.

Dr. Shah went to the nearest phone and called Chris Larabee.

********

"We have a problem." Dr. Shah's pleasant but professional sounding voice greeted Chris Larabee first thing Monday morning. He, Buck, JD, Josiah and Nathan had all come in first with Vin electing to take the first shift at the hospital.

This was not the phone call Chris was expecting. He was operating under the belief that Ezra would soon be moved to a regular room and that Vin would be the one calling to say that Ezra had awakened and was doing well. As soon as Chris had heard Dr. Shah's voice, he'd felt the beginnings of a headache. With one hand, he rubbed at his temples and with the other, swiftly gestured through the open door for the others to come inside.

When the others were gathered, Larabee informed Dr. Shah that he was placing the call on speakerphone. With concerned faces they proceeded to listen to what Dr. Shah had to say.

"Mr. Larabee, does Mr. Standish have any prior history of cardiac conductivity problems?"

Chris scowled, "Cardiac...what?"

"Problems with cardiac conductivity. In other words, has Mr. Standish ever been diagnosed with an irregular heartbeat?"

"Not to my knowledge. No." Chris looked over at Nathan questioningly, but the medic shook his head firmly no.

"Don't you remember, Chris? Ezra just had a full mandatory physical three months ago. He got a clean bill of health," Nathan clarified.

"Hmmm. What about his mother? Father?" Dr. Shah asked.

Chris looked helplessly over at Nathan. "I don't know his mother well enough to know. As for Ezra's father. - the man was murdered when Ezra was a boy. Why exactly are you asking?"

"I'm asking because despite the fact that only traces of the epinephrine remain in Mr. Standish's bloodstream, his heart seems to have developed an arrhythmia. In other words, instead of his heartbeat dropping back down to a more normal resting range of 60-80 beats per minute, his heart is now beating at 220 beats per minute. This is not only dangerous, but highly suggestive of some undiagnosed cardiac conductivity problem - that's why I asked about Mr. Standish's health history."

Nathan ran a hand worriedly through his short, wiry curls. "Doctor Shah, we'll do our best to track down his mother, Maude Standish, but in the meantime, can you tell us what you're doing for Ezra?"

"Of course. First, we have some good drugs that can bring the heart back into normal rhythm and they almost always work. Right now Cardiazem is being administered to him via IV. If by chance, he doesn't respond well to that, we can try Metraprolol."

"Has Ezra woke up yet?"

"Not yet. He will, and very soon."

"I'm coming down," Chris stated.

"As you wish. There's really no need to though. Mr. Tanner is here and there's a good chance the medication will work fine on it's own."

"Thank you for calling, Dr. Shah." Chris rather abruptly terminated the call and looked around at the silent, questioning faces.

He began shutting down his computer. "How the hell did this happen?" Chris asked no one in particular.

Nathan took a seat, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It _is _possible for Ezra to have had a previously undiagnosed cardiac conductivity problem."

Nathan observed the blank stares. "Look, the heart is a muscle that beats. Conductivity is just the normal electrical pathway through the heart that causes it to beat. In Ezra's case, the anaphylactic shock and the massive amounts of epinephrine he was given apparently caused a problem that was there all along, to flare up. The drugs will bring his heart rate down to a normal range."

Buck folded his arms across his chest. "Dr. Shah said, 'almost'. What if the drugs don't work? What then?"

Nathan frowned. "I'm not sure. They may try something like cardioversion."

"What does that entail?" Chris asked.

"Cardioversion is an applied electric shock administered under very controlled settings."

Electric shock? Chris felt ill. Would this nightmare ever end? How much was Ezra expected to suffer? Surely the medication would work and that would be the end of it. Yes, he definitely had a headache and a definite resurgence of guilt just thinking about the possibility that Ezra might not be able to continue as an undercover agent, but this news was even worse. The entire state of the man's health was in question.

Then there was Devil. Larabee was only delaying the inevitable painful task of arranging for the animal's cremation. At least he'd already taken care of the junk cars. In the time when he'd not been at the hospital he'd called both a local bee keeper to take care of the remaining bees that were trying to rebuild the damaged hive, and a wrecking company to come and remove the junk cars from Guy Royale's property.

Nathan, seeing Chris' reaction, hastened to add, "It's pretty much like the electric shock given to start a heart that's ceased beating, but it's about half the usual 400 joules needed to reverse cardiac arrest."

"I'm sure Ez will be thrilled to hear that," Buck said under his breath.

*******


	7. Chapter 7

**Part Seven**

Vin Tanner hated hospitals. As different on the outside as the quiet, shy Texan seemed to be from the smooth-talking, suave, Southerner, the two were very alike in certain aspects of their personalities. For example, Standish's hatred of hospitals equaled Tanner's. While Tanner hated the loss of freedom that came with being hospitalized, Standish loathed the invasion of his privacy.

Vin found himself wishing more than anything that Ezra would open his eyes, throw back the covers, and demand that Vin drive him home. The sharpshooter would have been all too glad to oblige. Instead, Vin found himself sitting by Ezra's bedside, patiently waiting for his friend to wake up.

Even though the hated ventilator was gone, Ezra was still tethered to the bed by other medical equipment, especially by the multiple leads on his chest and back that were attached to the heart monitor. He hated seeing Ezra like that. "They got you all trussed up like a pig at a barbeque. The sooner ya wake up, the sooner we can get the hell on out of here."

Vin wanted badly to believe that; however, somewhere in the last hour or two, he had started to get the feeling that something was going on that didn't exactly bode well for a speedy exit from the hospital. He'd seen Dr Shah after she'd come from Ezra's cubicle, and she'd not looked happy. Vin had no idea why, nor did he know that Dr. Shah had already called Chris Larabee. Not long afterwards Vin had observed Dr. Shah and another doctor, a black man, tall and broad-shouldered, enter Ezra's cubicle.

Now seeing Ezra for himself, Vin could only guess why Dr. Shah looked unhappy. Ezra's appearance had greatly improved with the reduced swelling and fading hives. However, Standish looked unexplainably unwell and in pain, and that had Vin worried. Vin reached over and grasped Ezra's hand. "What's going on with you, Ez?" he murmured.

Suddenly, the pale hand in his twitched, followed by a low moan, the sound of which was full of misery and pain. Vin sat up straighter, staring eagerly at the pale, slightly sweaty face. Anxiety and excitement fought for preeminence in the sharpshooter. "C'mon Ez, you can do it. Open them big green eyes of yours," he urged.

Ezra's eyelids began to flutter and the head with its thick chestnut-colored hair moved back and forth on the pillow. One moment, Vin had been sitting by the bedside of the unconscious Ezra, wishing he'd awaken, and the next everything changed when Vin got his wish.

So hell had been his eternal destination after all. He'd tossed the coin and even with fifty-fifty odds, he'd been unable to influence the outcome for something...cooler. Ezra Standish was surprised at just how disappointed he was to have his long-held, worst fears confirmed. And confirmed they were.

He was sure he'd died and gone to that proverbial place down below he'd heard about many times whenever Maud's third, con man husband played preacher and fleeced the flock with tales of fire and brimstone. How else could he explain the gradual, but increasingly uncomfortable, ominous dissipation of the tranquil oblivion he'd so enjoyed? What else could account for the substitution of pain-free, weightlessness for the painful, heavy weight that seemed to be crushing his chest? The intrusion of pain into his conscious mind was drawing Ezra reluctantly farther out of his safe cocoon and thrusting him into a place that was making his body shudder from the discomfort.

This continued brutality to his person wasn't what he was expecting. Wasn't it enough that, by an act of extreme will, he'd returned to his body? The answer drifted to him: _You have to come back all the way. Your friends are waiting for you._ But he felt so thoroughly, wretchedly ill. His head felt fuzzy and dizzy as though he was struggling to come up from the depths of some deep, murky lake.

He felt an oppressive pounding in his chest. Something with a life of its own was galloping like a racehorse in his body, thumping against his chest. The palpitations were so strong that he thought whatever it was would break his ribs to effect its escape. It was a sickening feeling and he was being drawn ever nearer to this new, terrifying reality as he left more of the fog of oblivion behind. Piercing through his pain and confusion he thought he heard a voice saying, _"C'mon Ez, you can do it. Open them big green eyes of yours."_

Distantly, Ezra heard the sound of a pitiful moan. In some vague part of his mind, he realized the sound had come from him and he was mortified. Again, a soothing voice with a soft, Texas drawl pierced through the pain that seemed to have settled on him like a thick blanket. Ezra knew that voice. _Vin's here,_ his mind helpfully supplied the name that went with the voice.

Ezra's mind reeled in his confused state. While he could not claim to be surprised to have ended up in Dante's Inferno, surely upstanding, honest Vin Tanner could not be here to share such a fate?

Ezra fought to pry his heavy eyelids open. Bright light flooded through and he winced blinking once, twice, three times. On the last time his eyes remained open and the fuzzy shape above his face indeed sharpened into the warm, caring visage belonging to Vin Tanner. Standish gasped and flung himself upward, trying to get his weakened body up and out of the bed. His vision grayed around the edges and he had to fight to hold on to consciousness. What was happening to him? He had to get up. He had to get away. Standish felt dreadfully unwell. The room was spinning at a dizzying pace and he was panting now, his lungs expanding and contracting rapidly despite the oxygen being supplemented through his nose. Panic began to set in. He was not in hell after all, but rather in a hospital, in ICU by the look of things and that was close enough.

In an instant, the Texan's look of relief vanished and was quickly replaced by one of profound alarm. "I'm going to get the doctor."

Ezra felt powerless to halt the strong wave of fear that swept through him upon hearing Vin's intent to leave. With all the strength that he could muster, he flung out his arm and grabbed onto Vin's like a drowning man. Ezra felt ashamed of his need, yet he didn't let go. He felt Vin grasp his own shaking hand, holding it firmly, holding it steady as if absorbing his terror into the Texan's own body.

"Ezra, it's okay, but you have to calm down now. Take a deep breath. Look at me." Vin said. Tanner's blue eyes were uncharacteristically wide with anxiety.

Ezra opened his mouth and he heard himself choke out a torrent of words, struggling and panting between each one: "Vin...please... don't... Leave.. me. The bees... What's...happening,...I don't...understand. What's...wrong with...me?"

Ezra totally missed the strange look of dismay that immediately crossed Vin's face after he'd spoken. But before Vin could respond, a nurse, followed quickly by Dr. Shah, entered Ezra's cubicle in response to the alarming display of the medical devices monitoring Standish' sky-rocketing heart rate and blood pressure.

Ezra was dangerously close to stroking out.

"I need you to step outside, Mr. Tanner," the nurse said without looking at him.

Vin's blue eyes flashed. "I'm not leaving him," he said with calm finality.

Dr. Shah looked down at him as Ezra clasped Vin's hand with a strength born of desperate fear. "Mr. Tanner." Dr. Shah spoke in an urgent-sounding tone. "Talk to him. It is imperative that he calm down immediately. Can you help?"

Vin didn't spare her an answer, but commenced a litany of soothing assurances, and urgent pleas for Ezra to calm down. All the while Vin held tightly to the trembling hand.

Ezra closed his eyes, letting Vin's words wash over him. It took every ounce of his considerable self-control and discipline to suppress the panicky urge to fight his way out of the bed, but he did it. Standish forced himself to lie still and accept the ministrations of the medical staff, including the replacement of the nasal cannula with an oxygen mask. The switch seemed to ease the intense shortness of breath Ezra was experiencing and that too helped take some of the edge off his panic.

Gradually, Ezra opened his eyes and he became aware that the attractive woman with the long, dark hair and wearing the doctor's white coat was speaking to him as she performed a cursory exam. Ezra tracked her progress with his eyes that begged for answers.

The woman smiled reassuringly at him. "Hello. My name is Dr. Neha Shah. I've been the doctor primarily looking after you while you've been here in the Intensive Care Unit. I know it may not feel like it at the moment, but it's very good that you are awake now. I'm going to explain what is going on with you, but first I need to ask you just a few questions. Can you please tell me your name?"

"Ezra Standish. My name...is...Ezra Standish." He didn't have to pant nearly so hard for air between words as he had before the mask with the increased oxygen flow had been placed on his face. Still, Ezra was a master at reading faces and he noticed an odd expression cross the doctor's face and he wondered at it. He had answered her correctly. He knew his own name and he remembered too what had happened to him at Chris' ranch.

The relentless palpitations and dizziness were causing his anxiety to rise again. He closed his eyes and pressed a trembling hand to his chest. "I assume that this," Ezra waved his hand in a vague motion, "is more than a result of an unfortunate encounter with bees?"

Vin looked helplessly at Dr. Shah and the woman exchanged a calming look with the sharpshooter. Ezra had no way of knowing that what he had just said aloud sounded to the others like, 'Well, this is sipic not aft when good result he then encounter fom gr bees?'

"Mr. Tanner, I think it's time for you to wait outside." Dr. Shah suggested softly.

Vin nodded silently in agreement. He pressed Ezra's hand. "Ez, the doc here's gonna finish taking a look at you in private, okay? As soon as she's done, I'll come right back. You have my word as a Tanner."

Vin locked eyes with Ezra, allowing him to see the surety within. "Yes," Ezra replied. This time a broad grin with more than a little hint of relief came across Vin's face. Though it warmed Ezra, he had no idea why his response had caused Vin to smile that way.

He had little time to ponder the mystery as Vin left and Dr. Shah returned her attention to him. "Mr. Standish, when you suffered multiple bee stings your body experienced an extreme allergic reaction we call, 'anaphylactic shock'. Now we don't know exactly what bee venom is composed of, but we do know that it's more or less a chemical hodgepodge of enzymes and proteins. When you were injected with it, your body began producing large quantities of an antibody called immunoglobin E. That had all kinds of nasty effects on your body's cells and tissues. Specifically, it caused your body to release an excess amount of histamine, which is a very dangerous chemical. " Dr Shah paused. "Can you understand me, Mr. Standish?"

Ezra's head was pounding, making it hard to concentrate on what the doctor was saying, but he was able to comprehend her words. He nodded his head slowly.

"Good. You were treated with several drugs, the chief one being massive doses of epinephrine. Epinephrine is adrenaline and that's what made your heart beat and blood pressure increase dramatically. That is to be expected . Normally what happens is that as the epinephrine leaves the patient's system, the heart rate and blood pressure return to normal. Unfortunately, that is not what happened with you. Both remained elevated. It was clear that your heart had developed an arrhythmia that was probably there all along, but flared up as a result of the epinephrine you received. Simply put, your heart is beating at an accelerated rate and that is why you don't feel well."

That was an understatement if he'd ever heard one. Ezra groaned in frustration. He needed all his powers of concentration to stay focused on what the doctor was saying, but he found he could no longer keep his eyes open. Dr. Shah's face was fading and her voice sounded as if it were coming from a long tunnel. He wasn't going to win this fight. Slowly, Ezra moved closer to the abyss before unconsciousness took him down to its depths.

Chris strode into the ICU waiting room with Buck and Nathan on either side. The dark-clad leader of Team Seven immediately saw Vin sitting slumped in a corner. It didn't take a genius to see that his friend was stressed about something. Chris went over to him. "Vin, what's wrong?"

Vin stood up and jammed his hands into his jean side pockets. "This is a fucked-up situation, that's what's wrong. Ezra got stung by some bees, now his heart's gone haywire, he might lose his job and he can't..." Vin abruptly stopped speaking and looked away.

Chris' eyes narrowed. "He can't? Now he can't what, Vin?"

Vin ran a lean hand through his long curls, clearly stalling. "He can't hardly speak right. He talks, he knows what he's saying, but it comes out sounding like some kind of foreign-ass language."

Nathan frowned. "That sounds like some kind of aphasia."

"C'mon, Vin, Ezra always sounds like that." Buck desperately cloaked his denial in a joke that left him feeling immediately ashamed. The jovial, laid-back man simply couldn't handle anymore bad news. Ezra's words were his bread and butter. This couldn't possibly be happening.

Vin glared at Buck, but Chris looked at him with understanding. "This isn't funny and I don't think Ezra's gonna be laughin' when he finds out what's goin' on."

"I didn't mean it like it sounded, Vin. I'm sorry..." Buck's voice trailed off helplessly.

Chris silently observed the interplay between his two closest friends. He was pleased when Vin seemed to relent in the face of Buck's misery and sincere apology. Tanner's tense body posture relaxed and he appeared to Chris to be relieved to see them here. Larabee sat down and waited for the others to do the same. "Tell us what happened."

Vin sighed tiredly. "Ezra woke up. He was scared out of his mind. Can't say I blame him," he added softly. "The monitors were goin' crazy and then some nurse and Dr. Shah rushed in. I thought...I thought he was gonna have a heart attack or a stroke. Doc let me stay with 'im to help get him calmed down. That's when he started talking funny and she asked me to leave."

"Dammit! Ezra don't need this shit." Buck swore grimly.

"Nathan?" Chris asked expectantly.

Nathan looked frustrated. He knew what Chris wanted, what they all wanted whenever one of them was laid up in the hospital. The others sometimes forgot that he wasn't a doctor, that he didn't have all the answers. Now, more than he ever had, Nathan felt out of his depth. He knew enough about brain damage to know that memory loss and aphasia were among the host of other problems that could result from oxygen deprivation, but he was no expert in aphasia. Finally, he answered Chris. "I'm out of my league here. I don't know that much about aphasia. I do know that the human brain has an amazing ability to re-route functions from dead or damaged brain tissue. They call it 'plasticity.'"

Chris' expression was dark. "Can't say I really care what they call it, Nathan. I just want to know that Ezra will be okay."

"I told you, I'm out of my league here. I have no idea if aphasia is what Ezra has," Nathan snapped. The medic stopped and gentled his voice. "Whatever it is, we'll get him through it."

"Damn straight, we will."

When Dr. Shah came out into the waiting room, Vin was true to his word and immediately went back into Ezra's cubicle. He sat with the unconscious man while his colleagues remained outside, waiting to speak with the doctor.

Dr. Shah grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the men.

"How is he?" Chris demanded.

"I've ordered a brain scan. I'm sure Mr. Tanner mentioned to you that when Ezra regained consciousness, he was exhibiting signs of mild aphasia."

"Mild? Vin made it sound like he was spouting gibberish." Nathan exclaimed.

"He understands what he wants to say and what you and I are saying. Yes, his speech was largely unintelligible, and that does indicate that some brain damage did occur, but I believe with time and therapy, he can greatly improve. Please keep in mind, Mr. Standish is feeling very ill right now with the arrhythmia. On top of that, he was coming out of heavy sedation and is extremely weak and tired. All of that could have negatively impacted his ability to communicate clearly."

"Dr. Shah, we need to know. Is there anything else that he could be hit up with?" Buck asked wearily.

Dr. Shah answered honestly, "A person can have so much venom in their body that it causes a chain reaction that in the worse possible scenario, can spiral out of control. I do not see that happening here. We need to perform a brain scan so we can assess his current situation and design a course of therapy. It could very well be that all he needs is time. Meanwhile, I've consulted with a very good cardiologist on staff, Dr. Samuel Peterson. Dr. Peterson concurs that the best course of action for the next eight hours is to try to restore Mr. Standish's heart back to a normal sinus rhythm using medication we know has a very good track record."

There was one thing Dr. Shah hadn't mentioned and Nathan was determined to get all the information he could in order to help Ezra either fight for his job, or learn to live with his medical vulnerability without it. "Dr. Shah, what treatment is there for his allergy to bee venom?"

"Ah, yes...it seems as though we've talked about Mr. Standish's other medical problems without talking much about the one that brought him here in the first place. Unfortunately, I am not an allergist. Before he'll be allowed to leave the hospital, he will have been evaluated by an allergy specialist. He or she will probably want to give him a tetanus immunization. Other than the need to wear an ID bracelet and to carry an epi-pen with him at all times, my best advice to him is to not get stung by any bees." The solemnity of Dr. Shah's expression wasn't enough to mask the sparkle in her dark eyes.

Chris couldn't help but feel glad that Dr. Shah, with her competence and bright personality, was Ezra's physician. Where earlier, Buck's unintentional joking manner had caused tensions to rise, Dr. Shah's frank advice, delivered with a slight touch of humor, seemed to have the opposite effect on the men. Even the hard line of his own mouth curved upward in a slight smile.

_Don't get stung by any more bees. Sounds simple. Now if there were just a way to get the bees to understand and leave Ezra the hell alone._

TBC 


	8. Chapter 8

**Note: Just when you think Ezra's hit rock bottom, right? LOL - keep in mind that torturing dear Ezra serves a purpose while I work out RL issues! ; )**

**On with the tale…**

* * *

**Part Eight**

Four hours later, when Vin had given up the watch to Nathan, and Nathan had in turn been relieved by Buck, the medic returned to the office. Chris had looked up through the open doorway of his office just in time to observe Nathan go straight to his computer and power it up without a word to anyone. Soon, Nathan's long fingers were busy typing on the keyboard and moving the mouse back and forth as he gazed intently at whatever was displayed on the monitor.

The medic looked totally focused and Larabee knew without having to look that Jackson was gathering information pertaining to Standish's medical condition. As one of Larabee's agents, Jackson had non-medical related case duties too, but Larabee wasn't about to take the medic's attention away from his research.

As for Chris, he'd spent the last three hours first in a mandatory budget meeting, then doing paperwork, re-prioritizing Team Seven's cases, and figuring out what work the remaining members could accomplish to advance their ongoing case load without their undercover agent. One case in particular was of great concern to Larabee and to Judge Travis.

More than a year ago Team Seven had become involved in a major case involving a wide syndicate of motorcycle clubs running weapons to warring gang factions in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. It turned out that a motorcycle club called the Heathens headquartered in Colorado, had become through murder, kidnapping, and assault, the umbrella organization for the lesser clubs. Team Seven had worked tirelessly to infiltrate the gang and after three months, Ezra had finally found himself riding with the Heathens, and subsequently collecting evidence to bring them down. Together with a joint task force of ATF and FBI agents, they'd pulled off a successful raid, capturing the top leadership of the Heathens.

Months later with bail hearings, arraignments and an assortment of motions filings, one or two psychiatric evaluations, the trial was due to get underway in two weeks. Under normal circumstances, that would have been more than sufficient time for Ezra to have met with the federal prosecutor and refresh his memory regarding the case using the meticulous notes he'd compiled.

But that was before Ezra's world had been turned upside down by an encounter with a swarm of angry bees.

Now everything was up in the air. Although Chris didn't know what Ezra's ultimate prognosis would be regarding his aphasia, Chris knew he needed to apprise the prosecutor about the current condition of one of his anticipated top witnesses. If what Vin said regarding Standish's difficulties in communicating remained true, then Chris couldn't imagine how his undercover agent would be able to endure the rigors of testifying. For that matter, Chris couldn't imagine how the proud Southerner would even bear having anyone see him publicly struggling with an infirmity such as that.

Broken bones, gunshot wounds, concussions, they'd all learned to deal with the inconveniences and discomfort of physical ailments. None of them gave any thought at all to jumping in and lending a hand to a stricken brother when said brother was temporarily rendered physically incapacitated. But this aphasia was a horse of a different color. This was a hurt positioned in a psychological mine field ready to inflict damage to Ezra's self-esteem and self-confidence.

If one of his men had two broken legs or a serious concussion, Chris would know the things that needed to be done to see the person on the road to recovery. This time, he had no idea how he could help Ezra recover, or what Ezra needed in terms of support for a hurt that was on the inside. Chris had no delusions about the situation. While Ezra Standish had come along way in letting the others in and becoming a full-fledged member of the group, there was still a significant part of Ezra that was an enigma. Ezra was an intensely private man and Chris feared that if he didn't handle things right then Ezra would retreat behind an uncommunicative, closed-off wall they wouldn't be able to penetrate.

Chris picked up the phone and dialed Andrew Vita in the federal prosecutor's office. Twenty minutes later Chris Larabee's face was a mask of black storm clouds. He'd barely restrained himself from slamming down the phone in the wake of his frustrating conversation with Vita. Larabee understood that he was delivering unwelcome news at a time when Vita was probably feeling the pressures and responsibilities of handling a high-publicity case such as this one. However, the man had immediately adopted a sarcastic, inflexible attitude that all but broadcasted his doubt that Ezra Standish could possibly be so incapacitated as a result of being stung by bees.

Larabee had felt his blood boiling over at the insinuation that the request for a delay was simply an unprofessional ploy, orchestrated solely to make Vita's job harder. Larabee had coldly offered to personally march the self-centered man up to Denver Memorial's Intensive Care Unit so that Vita could tell Ezra to his face that he couldn't possibly be that ill.

Only then had Vita grudgingly backed off, stating that he'd need the proper documentation before he could petition the judge for any necessary delay.

"You'll have it today," Chris had ground out before terminating the call.

A giant of a shadow appeared in the open doorway, blocking the light and view of the outer bull pen. It was Josiah Sanchez looking at Chris quizzically. "Problem, brother?"

"Not anymore." Chris' dark expression belied his words, causing Josiah to snort his disbelief.

"Anything I can do?"

"Not unless you can pass yourself off as Ezra and testify against the Heathens."

"I'm a man of faith, but even I can't pull that off," Josiah replied regretfully. "Anything else?"

"Hang on." Chris shuffled through the pile of folders stacked on his desk until he found the one he wanted. He handed the folder to the profiler. "Here. Team Three is requesting an assist on this. They specifically would like your help in working up a profile on this particular case."

Josiah thumbed through the file, perusing the contents with interest. "I'll get right on it." He turned to leave, but then he stopped and turned around again.

Chris gave him a questioning look.

"I just might know how to get a hold of Maude," the big man said slowly, as if he'd wrestled with the notion for awhile.

Larabee didn't say anything for a moment. Then he looked at Josiah with a dubious expression on his hard face. "I'm not sure that's really a good idea all things considered."

"She has a right to know that her only child is hurting and is in ICU."

"And Ezra has the right to not have any more stress dumped on him. C'mon Josiah, you know what that woman's like. Hell, you know what _Ezra's_ like."

Josiah sighed deeply. He _did_ know what Maude Standish was like. Vain. Materialistic. Disapproving of her son's chosen profession and relentless in expressing it. But Josiah saw what sometimes the others seemed oblivious to and that was the fact that Maude, no matter how unconventional she was, loved her son just as Ezra loved his mother with an unshakable love. Josiah understood where Chris was coming from. Ezra wouldn't willingly expose his infirmity to his hyper-critical mother, but still... "What if what Ezra wants is for his mother to be there and he can't say it?"

That got Chris' attention. The older man had a point. Chris considered Josiah's words before looking at his watch. "It's nearing lunch time. JD's due to relieve Buck soon and Nathan and I will be going back over to the hospital. The best I can do is try and find out what Ezra wants."

"Fair enough." The conversation was over, but Josiah remained in the doorway.

"Anything else?"

"Could you tell him for me that I've been having words with The Man Upstairs?"

Chris nodded his head. "I'll tell him."

"Yeah, you should have seen how fast Chris and I cut out of there that night." Buck laughed softly at the memory of their glory days as Navy seals. He sighed and gave Ezra's hand a gentle squeeze when he noticed his friend had drifted off to sleep again.

Ever since Ezra had opened his eyes he'd been regaling Ezra with one tale after another during the extended visiting time he'd wrangled out of Dr. Shah. Any other time Wilmington would have boasted of the power of his animal magnetism to charm a 'yes' out a woman, but even Buck had enough honesty and common sense to acknowledge that his charm had had nothing to do with Dr. Shah acceding to his request for longer visiting time. The beautiful doc, with the intelligent, compassionate eyes, had bent the rules for an extended visit for the sole benefit of her patient.

And Ezra had needed it.

Buck closed his eyes as his mind replayed the earlier scene when he'd first come to visit.

_Standish was awake when Buck entered the cubicle. The undercover agent lay curled on his side, one hand close to his chest as though in an unconscious effort to keep his pounding heart from leaping out of his chest. His face was bathed in sweat and Buck immediately reached for a cold cloth and gently wiped his face off._

Ezra started, but his green eyes widened in relief when Buck came into his field of vision. "Hey, it's just ole' Bucklin here. Came to see how you're doin'. From underneath the oxygen mask obscuring half his face, Buck saw Standish lick his dry lips before speaking slowly a lengthy sentence.

Buck's heart sank. It was just as Vin said. He understood that Ezra had said his name, for he'd heard it clear enough, but as for the rest - the ladies' man had no clue as to what the Southerner said. Realization hit Buck like ten tons of bricks. Oh God, Ezra still didn't know. Dr. Shah hadn't had an opportunity to explain his aphasia to him before he'd lapsed unconscious. Now Ezra was awake and the task had fallen on Buck to tell his friend.

Standish had apparently asked a question and was waiting for a response with a growing expression of unease as he watched Buck's face. Buck glanced over with dread at the heart monitor and his mouth went dry. "Ez," Buck said slowly, "there's something you need to know." He paused wishing desperately for the timely appearance of Dr. Shah, but when the doctor failed to miraculously appear, Buck continued. "You're having a hard time communicating. When you speak, the rest of us don't really know what you're saying. Dr. Shah is waiting on the results of your brain scan, but Nathan said you may have something going on called aphasia."

Buck fought down the sick feeling in his stomach when he saw the look of sheer disbelief cross Ezra's face. The ill man shook his head and started to grab the mask off his face. Like lightning, Buck reached out and grabbed Ezra's hand. "Don't do that, Ez."

Ezra fought to pull the mask off, but in his weakened state he was easily overpowered. Ezra let go, looking frustrated. "I whaztering talk cak gingno here." Ezra's eyes were blazing with anger and suspicion and Buck could only imagine what the Southerner thought he was saying.

Buck was at a loss as to what to do. It was clear that the stubborn man didn't believe him. Why should he when, according to Nathan, his thoughts and what he believed he was saying, were clear and logical to him?

Buck was deeply troubled. Did Ezra think he was playing some cruel trick on him? If he convinced the undercover agent that he was telling the truth, he'd have to hurt him to do it and Buck thought he'd rather cut off his right arm than do that. But if he stayed and said nothing, he still wouldn't understand what Ezra was saying. Sooner rather than later Ezra would figure it out that Buck, or any other visitor could not understand him. By then, how much stress and frustration would his heart have taken in the process?

Buck needed a solution to the pressing problem. The handsome man chewed his lip furiously causing his mustache to move up and down. It was no good. He couldn't leave Ezra not knowing the truth. It felt too close to deception to Buck and in his heart of hearts, he knew Ezra wouldn't appreciate that. But how could he get Ezra to accept the truth? Then an idea came to him. "Ezra, if I prove it to you, will you accept that I'm telling you the truth?"

Ezra studied Buck's face and Buck in turn observed the proud features of the Southerner. There was defiance in those green eyes, but lurking close to the surface was a touch of trepidation. Finally, Ezra gave the barest of nods.

"Hold on." Slowly Buck withdrew his cellphone from his pocket. He switched it on and began thumbing for the feature that would allow him to make an audio recording. Wilmington took a deep breath and prayed to Josiah's God that he was doing the right thing. He activated the recording feature and held the phone up to Ezra's face. "Say something."

Ezra spoke. Buck had no way of knowing that what Ezra said was, "This is entirely ridiculous. I have never had any difficulty in expressing myself." The sound of Ezra's speech was to Buck, as Vin aptly described, ' a foreign-ass language.' Buck stopped the recording then got ready to play it back. "Are you ready?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Ezra was able to say clearly.

Buck pushed the button and Ezra listened to himself. Sadly, nothing prepared the tough man with the gentle heart for the look of utter horror that swept over Ezra's face that suddenly drained of all color. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Ezra clamped his mouth shut and his emotions down, but not before Buck saw the devastating look in Ezra's eyes. The sight of the light going out of those eyes that normally looked at the world with such wit and intelligence would haunt Buck for long time to come.

Buck placed his hand upon Ezra's shaking shoulder, but Standish wouldn't suffer the touch, but rather shrugged it off angrily. Buck's heart broke for his friend and his voice was choked with suppressed emotion. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Ezra. You gotta believe me, this isn't permanent. No fuckin' way is this gonna be permanent. You'll see. Dr. Shah will come and she'll explain everything to you and bring someone who can help you."

Ezra lay silent and as still as an inanimate stone, but the tear that leaked from underneath the closed eyelid to snake down his face was the only thing that did move for quite some time.

Buck opened his eyes and looked at the sleeping figure that looked, to him, so terribly vulnerable in the big hospital bed. He was so grateful that Ezra had allowed him to visit again, and this time, stay for as long as he'd been allowed. Ezra didn't blame him or hold anger at him for revealing the truth, but at the same time it was clear that the undercover agent had withdrawn into himself. He didn't try to speak and he would barely look at Buck.

A nurse entered the cubicle and with a discreet cough and a pointed look, let Buck now that he had long since gone over even the extra time Dr. Shah had allowed him. Buck got up, stretched his back, and popped his neck. "I'll see you later, hoss."

It was the longest eight hours Chris could remember in quite some time. It was as though they'd been holding their collective breath for Dr. Shah to tell them that the medications being administered to Ezra had worked and that that the heart arrhythmia had been successfully treated. But four hours after the Cardiazem had been injected into Ezra's IV, Dr. Shah deemed the medicine ineffective and switched to a dosage of Metraprolol.

During that time, the men had taken turns visiting Ezra, including Chris who had come by on his lunch hour when Ezra had been or feigned being asleep. Buck had told Chris that he'd been the one to tell Ezra the truth about his loss of communication.

"How'd he take it?" Chris had asked.

Buck had blown out his breath. "How do you think he took it?"

"Not well," was the succinct reply.

"Yeah, well multiply that times three and you'll get an idea."

Now four hours later at 3:00 pm, Nathan saw Dr. Shah and another male doctor coming out of Ezra's cubicle. Nathan sat up and he nudged Chris. "That's Dr. Peterson. Raine told me he's one of the best cardiologist at Denver Memorial." Nathan's voice held more than a little respect and touch of awe at the sight of the black doctor who looked more like a fit, Olympic athlete than most of the out-of-shape white doctors Nathan had been accustomed to seeing in his lifetime.

Chris tensed when he saw Dr. Shah approach with the second doctor. Dr. Shah jumped right into introductions. "Gentlemen, this is Doctor Samuel Peterson. He's an excellent cardiologist who I've felt necessary to call in for a consult on Mr. Standish's case.

"It's a pleasure meeting all of you, though I regret it can't be under better circumstances." Dr. Peterson shook Chris's hand in a strong, firm grip that immediately put Chris at ease. It was one alpha male recognizing another and Chris couldn't help but feel that Ezra's heart was in good hands. "I'd like to speak to you about Mr. Standish's condition, but I think it would be best if we move this meeting to my office. Any objections?"

"None," Chris answered.

The men followed Dr. Peterson down to his office on the second floor. When they entered the tastefully decorated office, Chris declined a chair but Nathan and JD took seats across from Dr. Peterson's desk. JD looked with interest at the detailed plastic model of the human heart sitting on Dr. Peterson's desk.

Dr. Peterson began speaking. "I think you gentlemen are in need of a little good news before I explain what's in Mr. Standish's immediate future. First, I conducted a thorough examination of Mr. Standish's heart and I found that his heart is a healthy one. He has no underlying genetic defect, or ailment such as coronary artery disease that is co-existing with the arrhythmia."

"That's good. That's good." JD nodded his head encouragingly in Chris and Nathan's direction. The young man was more than ready to hear some good news.

"Then why is this happening?" Chris asked, relieved to hear Dr. Peterson's pronouncement also, but unable to shake his worry.

"For the majority of people, all our lives our hearts maintain the pre-fixed rhythm necessary to beat and pump blood throughout our bodies. Sometimes arrhythmias can occur in a healthy heart and we never know the exact reason why. Does Mr. Standish drink a lot of coffee?"

Chris shrugged. "We all drink coffee. We're ATF agents."

Nathan scowled. "How many times have I told ya'll that you need to cut back on that stuff?" Nathan turned his gaze to Dr. Peterson. "Ezra works undercover. It's a highly stressful job with long hours. He practically mainlines the stuff when he's preparing for a case."

Dr. Peterson nodded his head knowingly at Nathan. "I recommend that Mr. Standish cut out drinking coffee or highly caffeinated drinks. Sometimes too much exposure to caffeine, which is a heart stimulant, will do it. When I say 'it', I mean atrial fibrillation. That is what Mr. Standish's heart is in. For some people, there are no symptoms and they remain completely unaware of their condition until an event like anaphylactic shock occurs. In the wake of the event, Mr. Standish is experiencing some very severe symptoms of atrial fibrillation such as palpitations, chest pains, shortness of breath, and weakness. He's also experiencing confusion that may even be exacerbating the aphasia symptoms."

"I take it we're here because the medicine that's supposed to restore his normal heart rhythm isn't working." It was a flat statement not a question from Nathan.

Dr. Peterson looked at them with a frank expression. "Yes. Unfortunately, neither the Cardiazem, nor the Metraprolol appear to be working. After eight hours, Mr. Standish's heart rate remains dangerously high. He can't afford to continue on this way as prolonged atrial fibrillation brings him closer to life-threatening events such as blood clots and stroke. That gentlemen, brings us to treatment via cardioversion."

Chris looked grim and JD noticeably paled. "You're going to shock him with electricity?" Chris asked.

"Yes. I understand how this sounds more like torture than treatment designed to save his life. It's true that the shock can be quite painful, but that's why an anesthesiologist will administer intravenous sedation to Mr. Standish. Once he's under, I'll charge the defibrillator to a specified energy level, normally around 200 joules. Then I'll deliver the shock which will, with a high probability, restore his normal heart rhythm. With the amnesic effects of the sedation, he'll more than likely, not even have any memory of the treatment at all."

"When do you plan on doing this?" Chris asked.

"As soon as possible. Mr. Standish indicated that he understands the risks and I obtained his signature on a consent form."

Chris' eyes narrowed. "Risks? What risks?" he demanded.

"Virtually every procedure carries some form of risks, but let me be clear: cardioversion is a safe and effective way to restore a heart back to normal sinus rhythm. Even so, there _is_ a potential risk that blood clots may form and there is a risk that cardioversion could dislodge the clot and cause either a heart attack or stroke," the cardiologist explained patiently. "Prior to the procedure, I will determine Mr. Standish's risk of forming a blood clot. Normally, Mr. Standish's blood would have already been thinned with anticoaglulant medicine for a few weeks, but obviously it's too late to do that now. This wouldn't be a concern if the atrial fibrillation had been present less than 48 hours. Unfortunately, there's no way to be certain of just how long he's had this problem."

Chris was confused and he fought to reign-in the urge to snap at Dr. Peterson. He took a deep breath before speaking. "So what you're saying is that Ezra may end up having a heart attack or stroke from a blood clot that's too late to do anything about?"

Dr. Peterson answered patiently, "What I'm saying is that due to the uncertainty of how long Mr. Standish's heart has been in artrial fibrillation, I'll need to perform a transesphageal echocardiogram. Basically, this is just a special ultrasound of his heart where I'll place a probe inside his esophagus to visualize the atria and scan for potential blood clots."

"What if you find some?" Nathan asked uneasily.

"Then I'll administer an intravenous solution of Heparin which is the fastest acting anticoagulant there is. After his successful cardioversion, I'll keep him on a suitable anticoagulant for an additional four weeks to up to six months."

It was impossible to miss the emphasis Dr. Peterson placed on the word, 'successful' and the calm confidence the doctor exuded was well received by the men of Team Seven.

Chris stuck out his hand and Dr. Peterson rose to shake it. "Thank you, Dr. Peterson. If you don't mind, I need to have a word with Ezra before you move him."

"Certainly. I'll make sure you're kept in the loop as to when and where things will happen."

"'Preciate that," Nathan replied.

The men departed Dr. Peterson's office and took the elevator back up to the fourth floor. "He's going to come through this just fine. I know he will," JD stated firmly.

"I think so too, JD." Nathan affirmed. The medic glanced surreptitiously over at Chris. He couldn't tell what Chris was thinking for the team leader's expression was heavily guarded. He knew that Chris understood the importance of not upsetting Ezra, but he couldn't stop the niggling worry from rising up from within. "Anything in particular you want to talk to Ezra about?"

The elevator doors opened and Chris stepped out. He spoke over his shoulder without breaking his stride. "Maude." 


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you for your most kind reviews! **

**On with the tale!**

* * *

**Part Nine**

"Chris, wait!" Team Seven's youngest member was standing inside the elevator with his finger on the button, holding the door open.

The earnestness of JD Dunne's command halted Larabee in his determined tracks. The dark-clad leader turned and found himself looking into the serious, but youthful face of his youngest agent. JD didn't hesitate. "Chris, wait here for ten minutes before you go and see Ezra. I'm going to bring you something."

Chris turned an appraising eye on JD. Though he was impatient to see Ezra, for all his youthful exuberance, JD was fully a man who had earned Larabee's respect. Chris valued the young man from Boston for his courage and agile mind. More importantly, he trusted JD so he was inclined to believe that the kid wouldn't have asked him to delay his visit without good reason.

He waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. Before he could ask, JD took his finger off the button and the elevator door began closing. Right before the door closed completely, Chris glimpsed a sliver of JD's face and heard the younger man's voice urging him again to trust him and to wait there.

Chris and Nathan proceeded to the familiarity of the waiting room.

"Any ideas where he's going?" Chris asked Nathan as they both took seats.

Nathan shrugged. "Not a clue. I'll guess we'll find out soon enough."

True to his word, roughly ten minutes later, JD appeared in the open elevator doors. He was smiling and holding what looked like a giftshop bag in his hand. He quickly came over to Chris and Nathan. Chris and Nathan stood up.

JD quietly reached into the bag and pulled out what he'd purchased. It was a notepad and an odd, Y-shaped pen that looked more like some kind of mechanical tool rather than a writing implement. "Chris, Ezra doesn't want to talk because we can't understand him and it makes him feel afraid and ashamed. This is a way for him to be able to communicate until he can work with a therapist."

For the first time in awhile, Nathan smiled. "That's a great idea, JD."

Dunne looked up at the much taller man and was dismayed to see the hopeful expression on the dark-skinned medic's face fade into a troubled one. Jackson looked as though he wanted to say something, but was reluctant to say it.

"What's wrong?" Dunne asked.

"Uh...nothing. It's a great idea, JD. I just..."

"Wouldya spit it out already?" JD demanded anxiously.

"Raine told me that with aphasia, typically reading and writing abilities end up being more impaired then speech or comprehension. What if he can't write any better than he can talk?"

JD relaxed somewhat. "Dr. Shah said that the kind of aphasia Ezra has is called, 'expressive' aphasia. Yeah, she said that he might have difficulty reading and writing, but not automatically. Just because Ezra can't speak right doesn't necessarily mean he can't read or write."

Chris looked with curiosity at the unusual pen. "How's he supposed to write with that thing?"

"Like this." JD inserted his middle finger into the Y and let it rest easily on the pad just above the point with the ink. "It's ergonomically designed to make it easier to grip. I thought it would be easier for him to hold because he's feeling so weak and dizzy."

Chris gave a short nod of appreciation as he took the items from JD. This act of thoughtful ingenuity was so typical of the young agent. Chris favored the young man with a sincere, "thank you, JD. I'm sure Ezra will appreciate this."

A blush crept up JD's face, but the boyishness of it contrasted with both the seriousness of his expression and his eyes that had acquired a suspicious shimmer. "When my mom was sick I spent a lot of time in the hospital. Towards the end, she was hardly ever awake so I spent a lot of time writing with one of those pens I found in the gift shop." For a moment, JD looked like he was far away before he spoke again. "I went through a lot of those pens. The young man shrugged, "I just know how I would feel if it were me, sick and unable to talk to anyone."

JD hastily walked away with Chris and Nathan both looking after him. Sometimes the others forgot that JD had just as much reason to hate having to spend so much time at the hospital as Vin and Ezra. It was a place that inevitably brought back painful memories. Yet, here he was, a steadfast friend, ready to help where he could. For a moment, Chris stood still, looking at the pad and pen in his hands. "Guess I'll go and see Ezra now."

"Chris," Nathan said. The medic's dark eyes held concern. "Remember, Ezra knows about the cardioversion and he's probably feeling a bit scared right about now. He might not feel up to even writing."

"I'll keep it in mind."

*******

Chris Larabee stood in the doorway of Ezra's cubicle for a moment, simply observing the miserably-huddled form of his undercover agent. Chris was hoping to find him awake. For the past few hours Ezra had drifted in and out of the waking world, sometimes falling into a natural sleep, sometimes slipping into unconsciousness because of the constant dizziness and faintness caused by the arrhythmia.

All Chris knew is that he'd never seen the suave, sophisticated Southerner looking so wan and ill. No way was Ezra gonna want Maude seeing him like that.This Larabee believed. He _firmly_ believed it until Dr. Peterson's words came back to haunt him. "_There is a potential risk that blood clots may form, and there is a risk that cardioversion could dislodge the clot and cause either a heart attack or stroke." _If Ezra did indeed understand the risks of the upcoming procedure, could it be the Southerner actually wanted his mother there - just in case?

His guts twisted. The thought of something going wrong felt like a betrayal to Chris but he was a man who never flinched away from hard reality. There was still a chance that Ezra wouldn't survive the procedure. Chris couldn't honestly say that if the worst possible thing were to happen, that Ezra would not have wanted to see his mother. Regardless of his own personal feelings, what Ezra wanted was the only thing that really counted.

Ezra's eyes were closed. Whether awake or asleep, Standish's defensive, curled-in body posture said everything about his closed-off emotional state. Larabee slowly approached Ezra, stopping to grab a chair and move it close to the bedside. "Ezra?" Chris' voice was gentle, but there was no mistaking the commanding tone contained therein.

Ezra's eyelids fluttered, then his eyes opened revealing weary, green orbs made dull through his suffering. When his eyes fixed on Chris, Ezra closed his eyes and turned his head away in mute resignation. Chris received the message loud and clear: 'I know you won't go away, but I will.' But Chris knew the younger man all too well. There was no way Chris was going to leave and validate Ezra's fears that he needed to hide from them, that he was thought of suddenly as being less than the man he'd been before the aphasia.

"Ezra, I need to talk to you. I know you feel like shit right now, but just listen to what I have to say." Chris paused waiting for some kind of sign, but there was nothing but a pale hand that clenched the blanket tighter and the constant low sound of the heart monitor. Chris continued. "Don't matter that Dr. Peterson practically all but guaranteed this cardioversion thing is no more risky than getting a tooth pulled. Maybe you're thinkin' 'what if?' Maybe you're thinking about the one person who knows you almost as well as you know yourself. Now I can imagine that maybe you're a little bit scared about the procedure. If it were me lying here in this bed, I know I'd be, but I don't think that's really what's eatin' your lunch, so I'm gonna ask you straight up - do you want Maude here? If you do, I want you to take this notepad and pen and tell me how I can reach Maude." Chris held up the notepad and strange-looking pen.

Ezra opened his eyes and Chris felt some measure of relief at seeing something other than a blank, despairing stare in them. There was a questioning look, an almost imperceptible flair of interest in the pale green eyes as Ezra looked at the objects in Chris' hands. A moment passed before Standish slowly reached out a shaky hand and grasped the pad and pen.

Chris reached over and positioned the pen in Ezra's weak hand the way JD had shown him. Then Larabee slowly elevated the bed and propped the pillows around Ezra so that he was not quite sitting up, but not lying flat. Ezra shut his eyes tightly, panting from the vertigo the small motion caused, his face paled farther and Chris was convinced that a fainting spell was imminent.

But Ezra gritted his teeth and held on and when a minute or two had passed, he slowly opened his eyes and considered the objects in his hands. Chris wasn't aware that he was holding his breath as Ezra seemed to stare at the pad for a long moment before slowly bringing the pen down and start writing on it.

It seemed to take forever for Ezra to compose his thoughts and write them down. Finally, he was finished. Slowly, Standish turned the pad face up and nudged it towards Chris before turning his face away.

Chris took the pad and read what Ezra had written.

_Monte Carlo- Not Vegas. Les Thermes Marins Resort. _

_Mother is busy reeling in next year's husband. I'm frightening _

_this locale lacks the amenities to competing._

Larabee visibly relaxed and quietly breathed in relief at finding he could easily decipher Ezra's imperfect message. He didn't stop to contemplate the irony of being relieved rather than appalled to see the opposite of the flawless, meticulous writing Ezra customarily produced, for an understanding much deeper than the surface words on the paper had suddenly came to Chris, taking him by surprise. An ache fell uncomfortably on his fortified heart at the realization. "You're not afraid to have your mother find out you're in the hospital like this. You're afraid that if she knows, she _won't _come?" he carefully asked.

Looking weary to the core, Ezra closed his eyes and nodded his head reticently.

Chris didn't know what to say. Clearly, the admission had been a painful one for the Southerner, but Chris wouldn't lie and say he believed Ezra's fears were unjustified. He knew too much from the little Ezra had shared about his childhood with Maude, and her attitudes about illness and imperfection. Still...Chris couldn't deny that there was something special about Erzra's and Maude's mother-son bond. Maybe he wasn't giving Maude's maternal instinct enough credit.

The silence stretched on until Chris sighed and began speaking. "Ezra, I ain't gonna tell you what to do. You know me better than that. I'll just say that if you don't let Maude know what's going on, then you'll never be able to say that you gave her a chance to act like a mother and be here when you really needed her. You might end up feeling resentful about that, but you sure won't have any just cause when it was you who took the choice away from her."

Chris's eyes fixed on Ezra. Watching. Waiting for the other man to give him a clue as to his inner thoughts. At any other time, Standish would have been unreadable. His undercover agent had perfected the skill of smoothly assuming the poker faced expression whenever he found himself in a tight spot. But his illness and the medications he was taking were wreaking havoc on Ezra Standish's emotions. Ezra was both literally and figuratively sick at heart and he lost the fight to keep his emotions under control.

In an instant Ezra's face became an open book and in it, Chris read every deep seated fear of abandonment, every neglectful childhood hurt, and every hour of loneliness Ezra had spent courtesy of his mother. He read other things there too. An unspoken terror that he wouldn't be able to take back his health to the point of being able to do the job he loved. Fear of being cut loose from Team Seven. The agony of the thought of losing the security of the only real family he'd ever known.

Ezra was crying.

Miserable and embarrassed at his helplessness, Standish wiped angrily at his tears that leaked from his eyes and pooled at the top edge and around the sides of the oxygen mask covering the lower half of his face.

Larabee felt no embarrassment. He himself only remembered with half a mind's clarity the many times he'd raged and then collapsed crying in Buck's arms when Sarah and Adam had been murdered. He had no memories of what Buck had said to him in those early dark days of never-ending grief. All he knew is that Buck had grabbed him and held on tight while the torrent of tears and snot had baptized shirt after shirt of Buck's.

Larabee moved then. He gripped Standish by the shaking shoulders and gently pulled him to his chest. "We'll find Maude. And if she won't come you ain't gonna go through this alone. We're here and we're family. You got that?" Though whispered, Chris' words came out sounding unintentionally harsh from the power of his own emotions fueling them.

Larabee felt Standish nod his head and only when the shaking ceased did the he lay his friend back down upon the bed and relinquish his hold. Standish was exhausted, barely able to move but he managed to grope for Chris' hand. Finding it, he seemed to pour his last bit of strength into giving it a squeeze.

"You're welcome, Ezra." Chris doubted if Ezra had even heard him. The undercover agent had fallen unconscious again. _Wish he'd stop doin' that. _Chris Larabee got to his feet and strode out of the room. He was on an unstoppable mission and this time, he would call upon the persuasive talents of one Josiah Sanchez.

*******

The next time Ezra came to he was alone. The uncomfortable pounding and racing sensation he'd been feeling in his chest had now taken to tormenting him in other places in his body. The first time it had happened, he'd woke up, near terrified to feel the disturbing sensation in his throat. Another time, he'd clutched his neck, feeling the strong sensations competing with the constant pain in his chest. He wanted it to end and he was desperate for the cardioversion. When his thoughts turned darker he became less particular about the means to the end.

Despite the muzziness of his brain, he now lay in quiet contemplation of Chris' last visit as he waited to be taken for the initial, transesphageal echocardiogram. He'd cried in his boss' arms , but Chris' calm reaction had managed to blunt the sharp shame of the memory. He was more focused on the fact that he'd given up his mother's location and had asked that she be contacted. He was appalled by his actions. _Why the hell did I do that? _He silently cursed Larabee for being right. He _was _afraid that if Maude knew, she wouldn't come. But he wondered just how much of his dignity he would have to sacrifice on the alter of his mother's vanity if she actually did show up. 

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of a male lab technician. Ezra watched warily as the white-coated lab technician approached, blood-drawing apparatus in hand, ready to draw the blood Dr. Peterson had ordered. The technician, whose tag read, "Rudy" was quick and efficient. He took the required blood sample and left. Not long after that a nurse entered his cubicle and administered a sedative into his IV.

Ezra closed his eyes and it seemed to him that he merely blinked and then he saw Dr. Shah looking down at him with a small smile that graced her face. There were two orderlies with her. "Dr. Peterson is ready to perform your echocardiogram. These gentlemen with me are here to take you down for the procedure." His thoughts were too wooly for him to respond but he understood that he was about to be taken somewhere for an invasive test before the cardioversion.

The two orderlies started the process of unhooking and transferring the various medical apparatus attached to the bed and onto the gurney. Dr. Shah lowered the railing and the two orderlies positioned the stretcher next to the bed. They reached across the stretcher and took hold of the sheet on Ezra's bed, grasping it near his head, chest, hips and knees. Gently, the two men slid him across and onto the stretcher. Ezra fought hard to stifle a groan as the pounding in his chest increased and the room spun sickeningly. Swiftly, he was covered with a sheet and light blanket. Once satisfied that their patient was properly situated on the gurney, the orderlies began pushing it, rolling it towards the cubicle entrance and finally out into the hall.

"Ezra, you with us?"

Seemingly from afar, Ezra heard a rich baritone voice call his name. He forced his eyes open and saw not only Nathan's serious face looking down at him encouragingly, but JD's too. Ezra shifted his eyes and took in the sight of Chris on the other side. He too was looking down at him and when he saw Ezra gazing up at him, the tension seemed to ease from the older man's stern features. "We'll see you in a little while. Don't give the doc a hard time."

Something of the leader's calm strength and good will came through to

Ezra. Had he the strength he would have given them all his patented two-fingered salute. The best he could do was to lift the corners of his mouth into a slight smile.

***********

Ezra decided that the procedure had been the longest fifteen minutes of his life. He'd taken beatings from vengeful criminal targets before that were less miserable than enduring the test designed to find potential blood clots in his heart.

Dr. Peterson and a nurse were waiting and ready when he was wheeled into a dimly-lit room. Quickly, the nurse set about connecting Ezra to the ECG monitor. Dr. Peterson came over and spoke. "Hello, Mr. Standish. This is Kelly. She's the nurse who's going to be monitoring your vital signs during the procedure, but first she's going to spray your mouth and throat with a numbing agent to make it easier for you to tolerate the tube going down your throat." Peterson smiled apologetically showing even white teeth. "Sorry about the bitter taste. I keep trying to tell them to make a bourbon flavored one, but they just won't listen."

The oxygen mask was replaced by the nasal tubes and Ezra immediately felt the difference. He fought to remain calm as Kelly approached him holding the bottle of spray medication. "Please open your mouth wide for me." He complied and a moment later he tasted something cold and bitter in his mouth and coating his throat. He grimaced at the taste, but immediately noticed his mouth and throat growing numb.

Next, Ezra was transferred on to a table and positioned on his left side with his left arm behind his back. He looked with dread at the long, black mouth piece that was to be inserted in his mouth to keep him from biting the tube or the doctor's fingers. Even with the numbing medication, his gag reflex still kicked in and he found himself weakly pulling back as he gagged.

Without the benefit of the earlier sedative, he would have been hard pressed to keep from panicking at the gagging on top of having to pant again for air.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Standish. You have an extra-sensitive gag reflex," Kelly said. She administered more of the numbing medication and this time, Ezra was able to tolerate the mouth piece without gagging.

The nurse checked the leads connecting Ezra to the ECG monitor and Dr. Peterson spoke again. "All right, Mr. Standish. I know this isn't pleasant for you so we'll get underway and I promise, I'll have you out of here in fifteen minutes." He held the long tubing so that Ezra could see it. I'm going to insert this tube called a TEE probe down your esophagus and I'm going to need your help. First I want you to place your chin down on your chest. Then I need you to open your mouth and take slow, deep breaths and continue doing so until the probe is all the way down. Just give my hand a squeeze if you understand."

Ezra gave the strong hand a nervous squeeze. "Good," Dr. Peterson responded. Ezra closed his eyes and did as he was instructed. He tensed when he felt the probe, feeling impossibly wide, entering his mouth and start to snake down his throat.

"Okay, now start swallowing, that will help ease the tube down."

Ezra swallowed and the horrible gagging reflex threatened to kick in and he fought a losing battle to control it. Ezra's face was bathed in sweat and mentally he was cursing the doctor, cursing the hospital, cursing Larabee and most of all, cursing himself for being so weak. He started to gag painfully and for once, he wished that he would just pass out as he'd been doing off and on with regularity.

He lay miserably awake instead.

"Spray," Dr. Peterson commanded.

Nurse Kelly immediately applied more spray to his mouth and throat. Gradually, the urge to gag abated and the probe was successfully inserted 14 inches down his esophagus. Dr. Peterson skillfully maneuvered the probe into place in order to take images of Ezra's heart for display on the nearby video monitor.

Dr. Peterson, with a single-minded focus, began studying the images of Ezra's heart.

Much to Ezra's intense relief, fifteen minutes later Dr. Peterson withdrew the probe. The black doctor was smiling. "Your heart looks good. I don't see any areas that indicate the probability of blood clot formation." Peterson laid a hand on Ezra's shoulder. "I want to administer more of the Heparin and then in about an hour or so we'll get the cardioversion underway. You'll be feeling better in no time."

Pale and shaking, Ezra was taken to the recovery area where his ECG and vital signs continued to be monitored. The state of unconsciousness he'd longed for during the procedure, but had been denied, came to him at last.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks so all for checking out my fic! **

**Will it be smooth sailing for Ezra now? Let's see. : )**

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**Part Ten**

"Nathan."

The dozing healer's eyes snapped open. Immediately the medic got to his feet when he saw that it was Raine standing before him. His fiancée was off-duty and was dressed in casual jeans and a tank top. "Raine." Nathan reached for his love, pulling the beauty gently into his arms and meeting her lush lips with his hungry ones. He inhaled her sweet scent that even the medicinal smell permeating the hospital couldn't obscure.

Raine broke the kiss and smiled warmly at the worried Jackson. "You look exhausted." She didn't bother to suggest that he go home and rest - it was pointless and would be all the more so after she'd given him and the others waiting, an update on Ezra's condition.

Nathan rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "I'm fine." Only then did he realize that all, except for Josiah Sanchez, were either sitting or standing close by, amusedly observing the tender scene.

Nathan flushed and sat down, his strong hands nervously clasping Raine's feminine ones as she sat down next to him. "Do you have any information on how Ezra's doing? Do you know how the test went?"

The men pressed in closer as Raine spoke. "According to my friend, Kelly who assisted in Ezra's procedure, things went well. Ezra's in recovery and the nurses are monitoring his vital signs. Has Dr. Peterson come out to talk to you yet?"

"No. Not yet," Nathan replied. He glanced at his watch. "How long has Ezra been in recovery?"

"About fifteen minutes. I don't know if anyone told you, but it's all right to go check on him for a short time while he's in recovery."

Nathan glanced sharply up at Chris. Larabee returned the unspoken question with a nod of his head.

Jackson's mouth went dry at the thought of seeing an awake Ezra. As luck would have it, every time it had been his hour to sit with Standish, he'd been deeply asleep or unconscious. Nathan hadn't had to worry about trying to hide his concerns about Ezra's future as an undercover agent from him. He was a terrible liar and had absolutely no skills whatsoever in the area of deception and suppression of emotions. The worst thing that could happen is that Standish would read in his eyes what he could not say to him in person.

Nathan had done his research. He'd looked into the medical board procedures and examined outcomes for case after case. According to what he'd discovered, the future looked pretty bleak.

Nathan was surprised at the intensity of the fear he felt at what the change could mean. They were seven, damn it! Each man was a part of the whole and a whole was always greater than the strength of the individual parts alone. What good was a hand without an arm? A foot without a leg?

Jackson sighed as if he could expel his morose thoughts that way. He stood up and began walking with Raine in the direction of the recovery room like a man going to his execution. When they reached the entrance, they both went into the brightly-lit, open bay room where several patients, in various stages of recovery, were ensconced. A group of medical personnel were congregating at a work station while an occasional nurse walked about quietly performing their duties.

Nathan's eyes swept the beds looking for Ezra Standish. Almost all of the beds, even the ones with patients, had the long privacy curtains pulled back.

Jackson walked down until he found the one he was looking for.

Ezra's eyes were closed. There were dark circles underneath his eyes and even from beneath the oxygen mask that was once more obscuring his features, he looked worn out. Nathan watched concerned as Ezra's chest moved up and down with the shallow breaths he was still forced to fight for despite the boost from the oxygen. His skin, against the white of the pillow, seemed bloodless in comparison. Nathan's eyes quickly swept over the medical equipment attached to his exhausted friend. The hiss, beeps, and swishes of the machines monitoring Ezra's heart rate, blood pressure and oxygen levels provided a backdrop of constant sound that Nathan suspected the Southerner found irritating. An IV drip delivered the Heparin into Ezra's system.

Nathan spared a quick glance at the ECG readings before stepping close to the bed. "He looks so exhausted," he whispered worriedly.

Raine rubbed Nathan's back softly. "Feeling weak and tired after the procedure is completely normal. It's just that Ezra's likely feeling it far more intensely because he's still so sick."

Nathan sighed. "I imagine his throat's gonna be mighty sore for a few days too after having that probe stuck down him." Nathan leaned over Ezra's curled figure. "Ezra." Nathan called softly. His dark fingers brushed gently against the perspiring forehead.

Slowly the Southerner's eyelids lifted only half-way to reveal groggy green eyes. "You're in the recovery room in case you didn't know." Nathan smiled, then his expression grew serious. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to. I just came in to check on you."

Standish slowly blinked and Nathan caught a glimpse of unfocused, sleepy eyes. Nathan wondered just how much his drugged friend would be able to understand. Just then Ezra coughed and his handsome face tightened up in a grimace of pain. Immediately the medic took hold of one pale, limp hand. "Does your throat hurt? Can I get you some ice chips?" There was a pause before Nathan felt his hand being weakly squeezed which he took as a 'yes'. "Okay, hang on. I'll fix you right on up." Nathan turned to Raine, but he didn't have to ask - she was already out the door on a mission to bring back ice chips and a spoon. She promptly returned and handed the items over to Nathan.

"Ezra, I've got some ice here. This is how we're gonna do this. I'm gonna count to three and when I get to three I'm gonna lift off the oxygen mask. All ya gotta do is open your mouth and I'll slide the ice chips right in and put the mask back in place, Okay?" There was no response just the continued slow blinking of groggy eyes. Nathan placed some crushed ice on the plastic spoon, grasped the mask and counted to three slowly and clearly. Upon three he lifted the mask and put the utensil up to Ezra's mouth. Nathan's plan paid off when the cold lips parted. After he slid the ice into the sick man's mouth, Nathan saw a look of pure relief pass over Ezra's face. The medic smiled at Raine and mouthed a 'thank you" for the ice.

Nathan turned his attention back to the undercover agent. "Ezra, we haven't' talked to Dr. Peterson yet, but I'm guessing that if he'd have seen any clots forming he would have told us right away. If I'm right, you won't be here for much longer. He's gonna want to get the procedure started right away. You're gonna feel so much better when it's all over," Nathan predicted. He sincerely hoped so because right about now the medic was having serious doubts about just how much more Ezra could take.

Era's eyes had drifted shut and he appeared to be out of it. "Nathan." Raine squeezed her man's shoulder gently. "We should go now."

"You hang in there, Ezra Standish. You hear me?" Nathan reluctantly straightened up and left the room, but not before looking one more time at the still figure. _Hang in there._

_*******_

Josiah Sanchez rubbed a large hand through his thick, graying hair,. He was a lone figure in the quiet office space belonging to Team Seven. Sanchez wasn't usually there after normal work hours. Chris Larabee, being the team leader, habitually stayed late because his duties demanded it. Ezra customarily left late too, not because of his duties, but because he frequently ignored the standard 8:00 am work day start time in favor of a later, what he deemed a 'more civilized' time.

Josiah was glad that he had the floor to himself. He wanted a quiet place where he could hear himself think without being disturbed by the antics of Buck and JD, or the occasionally over-bearing Nathan.

There was another reason too. He was going to call Monaco and he knew he'd have to dust off the French he'd hadn't spoken since he'd studied the language in college. He'd tracked down the number to Les Thermes Marins Resort in Monte Carlo but that was the easy part, he knew. It had to be nighttime in Monte Carlo and that meant that it was highly unlikely that Maude Standish-Deveraux- LaCroix-Bancroft could be found tucked away in her room. No, the grifter would be at any one of the exciting, high-roller casinos Monte Carlo was famous for. He was going to have to use far more French than he had the skills for and he didn't need his colleagues around to hear him humiliate himself.

He dialed, listening to the clicks from the phone as the overseas connection was made. Josiah waited nervously when the phone began ringing. It was quickly answered by a pleasant-sounding female voice.

"_Est-ce que ressource de Les Thermes Marins, comment je peux diriger votre appel?" _

Josiah more or less assumed that he'd been issued a standard greeting that included an inquiry as to where the call should be directed. Sanchez cleared his throat before replying. _"Uh...Bonjour. Uhm...Mon nom est Josiah Sanchez." _The big profiler managed to introduce himself Now he was fishing around deep in his mind for the words to communicate that he needed Maude Bancroft for an emergency situation. "_J'appelle des Etats-Unis.... et j'essaye de localiser... un invité à vous près du nom de Maude Bancroft. C'est une urgence et...et très important," _he managed to say.

"_Un moment, S'il vous plaît," _The friendly voice bade Josiah to wait.

The phone began ringing again but after eight rings the polite female voice broke in to inform Sanchez that Mademoiselle Bancroft was not in her room. Would he like to leave a message?

No, he didn't want to leave a message. What Josiah wanted was for someone to get a maid, a security guard, an agent from Interpol for cryin' out loud to track that infernal woman down and drag her to the phone so that he could tell her about her son! Josiah took a deep breath and slowly let the air out before fumbling through an impassioned plea for assistance in his rapidly dwindling French vocabulary.

Blessedly, the French woman took pity upon him and switched to flawless English. "Mr. Sanchez, if you will please give me your telephone number I will personally see to it that the message is delivered to Miss Bancroft right away if she is on the premises."

"Thank you, Miss..."

"Bouvier. Danielle-Élise Bouvier."

"Thank you Miss Bouvier." Josiah proceeded to give the woman his phone number. Afterwards he hung up the phone feeling oddly bereft as the connection was cut. What if the woman threw his number into the garbage, never intending to track Maude down? What if she simply grew too busy and forgot all about it? He had no choice but to trust Danielle-Élise to keep her word.

If there was a silver lining it was that he had given Danielle-Élise the number to his cellphone so he wouldn't be stuck sitting by the office phone. If he hurried, he might be able to make it back to the hospital before Ezra was taken for the cardioversion.

Josiah rose from his desk and swiftly turned out the lights. He rode the elevator down and exited the building by way of the parking garage. It wasn't long before he found himself on the road headed back to the hospital, negotiating his way through the rush hour volume of traffic. Too many cars and too many ill-timed traffic lights made for a maddeningly slow ride.

Sanchez's fingers thrummed out a staccato beat on the SUV's steering wheel. He kept glancing down at the silent phone next to him in the passenger's seat, willing it to ring.

Thirty-five minutes later he steered the vehicle into the parking lot of Denver Memorial. Now that he had arrived at the hospital, his mind was no longer focused on the silent phone. He was thinking about the treatment Ezra was to receive - could already be receiving. So immersed was he in his thoughts that he jumped, startled to when the cellphone begun to blare the familiar ringtone.

He pulled into the first open space, cut the engine and snatched open the phone. "Sanchez here," he fairly barked. Josiah's eyes closed in relief and he mouthed a silent 'thank you' heavenwards when he heard a feminine voice touched with a musical Southern accent. Right now that voice lacked it's customary light-hearted, flirtatious tone. Instead, Maude Bancroft's voice sounded wary and stressed suppressing anxiety. Ezra's mother laughed but the miles separating them could not disguise the forced sound of the laugh that accompanied her greeting. "Why, Mr. Sanchez surely Ezra told you that I was planning to come for a visit next month. Couldn't you wait until then to track me down?"

"No ma'am. I'm sorry, I couldn't. Look, Ms. Bancroft, this is not a social call. I'm calling because your son needs you. He's in the hospital and he's sick. Really sick."

Josiah heard what sounded like a strangled gasp, then silence. Finally, Josiah heard Maud's voice. "And what exactly is wrong with my darling boy?" This was the part Josiah dreaded the most. Having to explain to Ezra's skeptical mother that her son's life had been turned upside down ever since he'd been stung by bees.

Josiah didn't get a chance to respond because Maude kept talking. "Was he kidnapped and tortured by some miscreants of upbringing gone wrong? Has he been shot by some lowlife? I begged him to quite that job. What was my son thinking squandering his God-given gifts on a dangerous career in law enforcement!" Maude's hysteria-tinged voice was picking up speed.

Josiah moved to control the situation. "Maude, listen to me. Ezra was attacked by a swarm of bees. Apparently no one knew, not even Ezra, that he's severely allergic to bee venom. He almost died, and even though he didn't, the poison set off a some other problems. One of the problems involves a life-threatening heart arrhythmia."

"Don't be ridiculous - no one in my family is allergic to bees, and Ezra's never had any heart trouble. How can he possibly be as ill as you say he is?" Maude's fear came through loud and clear and her cultured accent had thickened.

If it had been Chris Larabee on the line, Josiah had no doubt that the fierce leader would have already had some choice, harsh words for Maude Bancroft. Luckily for her, Josiah's professional and life experience allowed him to understand that Maude's angry reaction was a smokescreen, a tool her subconscious wielded to effectively mask her fear.

Josiah's insight went even further. He realized that fear was something the woman didn't deal with well. He would have to stay on the line and explain to Maude exactly what had happened and what was still to happen with a great deal of patience and understanding.

Josiah chose his words carefully. "Ezra was in full cardiac and respiratory arrest and suffered some degree of brain damage. He had so much bee venom in his body that it set off a chain reaction. The medicine he needed to save his life is one that causes the heartbeat to accelerate. As the medicine leaves the body, the heart is supposed to return to a normal rhythm. Not only did Ezra's not do that, it got much worse until he was in danger of having a heart attack or stroke. He's going to undergo a procedure where the doctor has to shock his heart back to a normal rhythm. Now Maude, I'm not a betting man like your boy, but if I were, all my money'd be on Ezra that he's gonna come through this just fine." Josiah paused. "But there are risks...there's a chance that the procedure won't work. He could still suffer a heart attack or a stroke...or die. Your boy needs you."

Maude made a choked sound of protest. "Ezra's a grown man. A grown man I might add who turned his back on my advice not to get involved in your line of dangerous work! He turned his back on all his training. He doesn't need me," she ended bitterly.

"That's not true. And deep down in your heart, you know it's not." Josiah's voice, which could boom out loud enough to shake the rafters like an Old Testament preacher, softened with an infinite degree of gentleness. Josiah thought back on the little things Ezra had said, and some things he hadn't spoken of whenever the topic turned to childhood upbringing. The pain of bitter longing had escaped the tight corral of Ezra's heart from time to time. Josiah also remembered what Chris had told him. Chris had shared with the older man about the revelation he'd had about Ezra when he'd asked him about his mother. "The truth is that Ezra's always needed you but you taught him well not to ask for what he thinks he can never have. Right now he's scared-half out of his mind that once again you will prove to him that something else is always more important to you than him."

Maude answered and this time, Josiah heard raw confusion in her voice mixed with regret. "I...I did the best I could, but things were very hard for me when Ezra's father was murdered." Maude suddenly gasped and her voice grew hard. "Did you say something about brain damage?" Now Maude's voice sounded far away and filled with horror. "My God, that sharp mind!"

"It's called expressive aphasia. Ezra understands what a person is saying, but the aphasia is, for the time being, making it difficult for him to speak," Josiah said bluntly.

"No. No, no, no. What has Ezra gone and done to himself?" Maude moaned. Her anguish was real, Josiah thought, but he felt his ire rising at her thoughtless choice of words.

"Ezra didn't do _anything_ to himself!" Josiah's voice rumbled dangerously. "None of this is his fault, but if you choose to break his heart by not coming to see him, then that's one more regret you'll have to trouble your soul. We are his family and we'll be here to help get him back on his feet."

Josiah heard the barest hesitation. "Well of course I'm coming," Maude declared. "I'll come as soon as I can make arrangements."

Josiah breathed an inward sigh of relief. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Why thank you, Josiah, but no. I can take care of things myself."

"Godspeed to you then."

"Good-bye."

Josiah closed his phone triumphantly. She was coming! They'd worry, later about what would happen when Ezra's mother actually showed up, but for now, his joy at knowing that for once, Ezra would have his mother there when he really needed her and was something to savor.

The big profiler got out of his car and, with a spring in his step, began quickly walking towards the hospital entrance eager to rejoin his waiting brothers.

*******

Chris Larabee's back ached from sitting in the hard chair - a far cry from the cushioned seats in the ICU waiting room they'd all spent far too much time in. _Never thought I'd miss waiting in that place. _ With any luck, this would be the last time that they'd have to endure a vigil in any waiting room, comfortable designed furniture or otherwise. Chris' steely gaze suddenly locked on the approaching figure of Josiah Sanchez and instantly, all thoughts of waiting room vigils were dismissed when he observed the twinkle in Josiah's eye.

Vin and Chris exchanged glances as they both stood up.

"She's coming?" Chris asked without fanfare when Josiah reached them.

Josiah gave a toothy grin. "Lord help him, but I do believe she's on her way."

Chris didn't know whether to be relieved or on his guard at the news. Perhaps a little of both would be appropriate.

JD and Buck surrounded the two conversing men. "Is it true, did you really talk Maude into coming?" JD asked.

"Yes, son, it's true."

"How'd you manage that?" JD couldn't help but be curious after all he'd heard about and knew personally from having met Ezra's mother.

Buck laughed. "Kid, can't you just hear him now with that impressive voice of his...the perfect blend of philosophical babble and good old fashioned Old Testament persuasion?"

The big man shrugged then grinned sheepishly. "I merely explained the situation to her and gave her the opportunity to be the mother she wished she could be."

JD looked with admiration upon Josiah before he sighed. "That's great, but still its a shame she won't get here until after the procedure. What if something goes wrong?"

Nathan and Raine wandered over just in time to hear JD's last sentence. Buck popped JD on the back of the head lightly. "Ezra don't need what my ma used to call, 'stinkin' thinkin' right now. The man's suffered enough already don'tcha think?"

Chris glared at JD and the young man actually took a step backwards.

"Gosh, I didn't mean...that is, I'm just saying..."

"He's just thinking about what Dr. Peterson already told us," Nathan interjected. "The procedure has risks and Ezra has the right to know what those risks are. Like it or not, the shocks being applied are going to temporarily stop his heartbeat."

"Brothers, we all know that, but more importantly, we know Ezra. He's like a cat that always lands on his feet." Josiah reminded them.

"That's for sure," JD said empathetically, eager to change the subject.

At that moment the subject of their conversation was lying anxiously on a gurney, waiting to be wheeled out of the recovery room, into the elevator and up to the cardiac wing where he was to under go the cardioversion.

In exactly two minutes time, all hell would break loose.

*******


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks, SusanF for your kind review of chapter 10. You are a doll!**

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**Part Eleven**

Lying upon the gurney with his eyes closed, surrounded by medical equipment, Ezra Standish was in a world of hurt from which he was only half-convinced he was on the verge of deliverance. Sick, his mind drifted freely between moments of coherence and utter confusion. More often then not, his constant headache made it difficult for him to think and his thoughts were like wayward lambs refusing to be shepherded into formation.

Faces came and went. Sometimes Ezra accurately identified the context in which those faces appeared, other times not. He thought that Nathan had come to him. In his mind, he'd been left in the desert with his throat on fire and burning. Nathan had put the fire out with ice and water. Ezra was perplexed. How had he come to be wandering in the desert with his throat on fire and his head hurting so bad he wanted rip it off his shoulders? Coherent thoughts were so often just beyond the veil of the drugs and of his illness.

At other times he knew with clarity what was going on and that he had undergone a procedure. He remembered Dr. Peterson's confident compassion and warm smile, but he also recalled strange, disquieting dreams with unfriendly faces that seemed so real. In one, his cover had been blown and a nameless gang of mocking criminals had stripped him, tied him down, and tortured him with painful probes until the gagging induced left him feeling like his insides were going to come out of his mouth. He had called for help. _Chris, Vin, Buck, anyone...help me. _

In the dream, they had come and delivered him from his torment.

At the moment, Ezra was experiencing a more lucid period where he knew that he was alone again. Not more than five minutes ago, a nurse making her rounds had stopped to check his vital signs before going on to the next patient. The space of those five minutes was just long enough for Ezra's heart to decide that it had had enough abuse. Standish's condition was rapidly becoming precariously unstable. Suddenly, Ezra's body began shaking uncontrollably and an ominous feeling he'd come to recognize as Death stalking him, seized him in an icy grip.

Ezra's eyes flew open in wide alarm and he gasped in pain. The panting breaths of air he'd been accustomed to taking, despite the oxygen supplement, suddenly required far more effort than before and yielded far too little return. Something was wrong - well, more wrong than it had been before - and he knew it. _Oh God no! Not now! _Hethought in terror.

Every sense in his being told him that he needed help and needed it now. The hard pounding in his chest had abruptly increased to a frighteningly painful level, setting off the monitor alarms, and then suddenly, his blood pressure began plummeting. He was desperate to move his body upright and summon help, but it was a movement beyond his current strength.

Where was the nurse? Where was Nathan? Chris? Anyone? In the space of five seconds, Ezra's excruciatingly pounding heart stopped but then restarted with a vengeance, feeling like galloping hooves in his chest. Ezra moaned in distress, railing against the irony of having endured all that he had for nothing, right when he was minutes away from the cardioverison procedure. The gambler in him, who paradoxically left nothing to chance, had put all his faith in the promise that the cardioversion would bring an end to his current suffering.

It looked like Lady Luck had other plans.

He felt like a man barely hanging on the side of the cliff by his fingernails and those nails were leaving gouges in the dirt as his body began an unstoppable slide downward. He couldn't keep his eyes open and Ezra felt with a certainty that the blackness was coming for him. This time, when it did, it would drag him down and hold him in its depths forever.

Just as Ezra Standish despaired of help coming, it came. In truth, the monitor alarms had immediately summoned the attention of the medical staff. The nurses had responded right away by coming to his bedside and simultaneously paging Dr. Peterson.

Ezra heard a great commotion from afar. He pried his heavy-lidded eyes open but his brain could not process the swirling, spinning, fading visual information in front of his eyes. He lay there dizzy and confused.

Cold air rushed over his naked torso after the top of his gown was lowered and the sheet and blanket covering him were yanked down below his waist, causing his shaking body to add cold-induced shivering to the repertoire of involuntary movement. Standish heard and felt the _whoosh_ of cold air as the green privacy curtain in his cubicle was hastily pulled closed around the bed. Excited-sounding voices were speaking rapidly, barking orders. One high-pitched female voice penetrated through the barbed-wire terror gripping his mind. Then he thought he heard a male voice he recognized as Dr. Peterson's. Overriding everything was another voice. A voice endowed with steely command and having the power to make him walk through the fires of hell to obey it, rose above everything else. "Hold on goddamit! You can't go until I say you can go!" the voice said.

Standish was losing his fight to hold on to consciousness. His world contracted until all that it was consisted of various sensations. He felt hands touching him, felt a cold jelly being applied to his skin. Then he felt hard paddles pushing into his chest.

A moment later, Ezra felt a fiery pain rip through his chest wall and radiate upwards. Ezra convulsed and he felt as though his body had been flung upward until he was in free-fall. Through the darkening tunnel he heard a cry and somehow he knew that tormented sound had been wrenched from his own lips. The agonizing fiery pain left him as quickly as it had come but the voices did not. Ezra sensed more than heard voices raised in urgent conversation. Someone stroked his forehead and the fiery pain, like a bolt of lightning, came again making him feel as though he were being burned from the inside out. This time he did not cry out. The darkness beckoned him and he willingly gave himself over to it.

*******

"Paging Dr. Peterson. Report to cardiac recovery, stat."

There was an instantaneous effect on the waiting men of Team Seven upon hearing the urgent page. Worried eyes caught and held other eyes that held the same expression. JD paled and Nathan pursed his lips and looked worriedly over at Raine. Vin Tanner lept to his feet, preparing to barge into the recovery room. Chris Larabee jumped to his feet also but he grabbed firmly onto the Texan's arm. "Hold on there, Vin. You don't know that the page has anything to do with Ezra," Larabee said in a low voice.

"To hell it don't!" The Texan looked pointedly down at his boss' hand that was clenching his arm in a vice-like grip. Immediately Chris released the younger man.

"Storming in there like that is a bad idea," Nathan said. He looked like he was about to do just that, but for Raine's hand resting on his arm.

"I can go in and find out if it's Ezra," Raine offered.

"I'll go," Chris said quietly, his tone inviting no argument.

Vin's blue eyes were still blazing and he looked like he was going to march in anyway. Buck quickly intervened. "Let him go, Vin," he advised softly. Buck's serious dark eyes reflected the same worry, the same desire to barge right into the recovery room and see what the hell was going on, but they also contained a subtle warning which fortunately, Vin heeded.

Tanner's shoulder's slumped slightly and he nodded his head in silent acquiescence. This time the long-haired, young man did not shake off the hand that briefly rested on his arm before being taken away.

Before Chris could move, the men saw the tall, athletic figure of Dr. Peterson practically running with long strides into the recovery room. Larabee wasted no time. He whirled around and walking with determined purpose, followed the cardiologist beyond the swinging double doors.

Once inside, Chris' eyes swept the room and instantly found the source of the commotion. Outwardly there was no change in the hard visage, but on the inside Larabee was reeling. Team Seven's fears had just been validated when Chris saw that it was indeed Ezra Standish who was at the center of the medical emergency. Larabee forced himself to move close to Ezra, wishing he wasn't seeing and hearing the nightmare that he was. Chris had seen many dead bodies in his lifetime. Looking at Ezra's bloodless face, it was difficult to believe that he wasn't looking at one right now. _Shit! Don't do this Ezra! _

"Sir, you need to leave," Chris heard a sharp voice say. Unmoving, he glared at the speaker and the command was not repeated.

The monitors were sounding dire alarms. There were too many worried-looking medical personnel attending Ezra, too many orders being given in commanding, tense tones. Larabee couldn't help but add his own anger-tinged voice to it. "Hold on goddamit! You can't go until I say you can go!"

Chris' mouth went dry when Dr. Peterson determined that there was insufficient time for the anesthesiologist to arrive and administer the sedation that would have kept Ezra pain as well as memory-free of the procedure in its aftermath. Standish's condition had become too critically unstable, forcing Peterson to forgo the sedation that would have been administered by an anesthesiologist in favor of performing the cardioversion immediately.

Chris wanted to help but the best he could do was to stand out of the way. It was maddening, having to watch helplessly as Ezra was efficiently turned on his back and the pillow behind his head was removed. Hands yanked the sheets and blankets down then pulled the top of Ezra's gown off leaving the undercover agent half-naked. The curtain was yanked closed around the bed while Ezra's body was prepped for defibrillation.

Dr. Peterson placed the paddles on his patient's chest. "Charge to 150 joules," he ordered.

The machine whined.

"Clear." The shock was applied. Larabee winced when Ezra's body jerked and a low tortured cry of anguish was wrenched from the stubborn undercover agent's lips. Tears leaked slowly from beneath Ezra's closed eyelids and Chris moved automatically to wipe them away, knowing that Ezra would have felt shame if he knew that strangers had witnessed them. He moved to the head of the bed and placed a comforting hand upon his agent's forehead. He only hoped that Ezra could feel it and know that he was not alone.

Chris waited with baited breath as Dr. Peterson looked at the heart monitor reading. The cardiologist was scowling, evidently not liking what he saw. A moment later he gave his second command. "Charge to 200."

"Clear." Once more a shock was administered, but this time no cry of pain followed. Ezra hadn't made a sound. His eyes had rolled back into his head and his body had gone completely limp.

The sight of Ezra going unconscious the first time he'd been stung, and every time after that, had terrified the hardened leader. However, that same sight now brought to Chris a sense of relief. Ezra wasn't suffering anymore and he was still alive, still fighting. Chris gritted his teeth, his jaw tight with tension. Though Standish was blessedly unconscious, Larabee didn't move from where he'd planted himself. With grim determination he'd see his agent - no, his _friend_ through this ordeal, no matter what the outcome.

A third and final shock was administered. Just as suddenly as the crisis had come, it was over.

The monitor showed a heart rate that was dropping steadily. At its peak it had been thundering along at well over 225 beats per minute. Now it had dropped from 150 and was steadily going down to a normal rhythm of 80 beats per minute. There was silence as all eyes were fixed on the monitor, watching, waiting for proof that Standish's heart would remain beating at a steady, normal sinus rhythm. After a few minutes of anxious waiting, the nurses began cheering quietly. "That's what I'm talking about!" Peterson crowed happily. A broad grin stretched across his face as he continued to stare at the number holding steady.

Chris Larabee found himself shakily leaning against the wall on legs that were beginning to feel like jelly. The adrenalin surge, the fear he felt at seeing what was happening to Ezra, and the anger that had fueled his strength, were fast dissipating. Chris staggered from the room and out into the waiting area. Without a word to anyone, he went directly to the far wall and let his back slide down until his buttocks hit the floor. Watching him, the others gathered around, anxious and tense. The unspoken question lay thick in the air. Had Ezra died?

Chris' men were crowding him and his first instinct was to yell at them to back the hell off and leave him alone. He didn't though. A moment later he felt a body sliding down on the floor next to him. Vin.

Feeling wearier than a man his age should, Larabee cupped his face with his hands, not wanting the others to see the raw emotions displayed. _I'm too old for this shit. _

"Chris, what happened in there?" Nathan tentatively asked.

"He's okay," Chris whispered without looking up. "He's okay." Suddenly Larabee's shoulders began to shake. Alarmed, the others pressed closer still. The men were confused, deeply concerned that the seemingly fearless leader appeared to be breaking down in public. They were astonished when Chris finally raised his blond head and the others could see that he was not crying at all. No tears of grief ran down the hard face. No expression of anguish twisted the handsome features. Far from it.

The man in black was laughing. It was the kind of laugh that was soul-cleansing, infectious, bordering on giddy even. "Son of a bitch, he did it!" Chris choked out between his laughter. "He did it!"

None of them knew for sure what "it" was but whatever it was, they understood that their friend and brother had faced down a medical crisis and was still with them. Chris continued to laugh while the others looked at Chris and then at each other.

It was JD who joined in the laughter first. Peels of laughter burst suddenly from the young man. Buck looked from JD to Chris, his expression all but saying that he thought his two closest friends had lost their minds. Then suddenly, he too joined in the laughter. "Of course he did!" Buck grinned through his mirth like a proud dad. The jovial man slapped JD on the back. Vin merely smiled while he observed the interplay but soon, the sharpshooter was laughing. Nathan and Josiah grinned at each other and were the last to join in with deep belly laughs that signaled the intense relief they were feeling.

They were still seven. Exhausted, stressed, still facing uncertainty, but they were still blessedly seven and that was good enough for now.

*******

Another waiting room, another round of restless pacing. Ezra had been moved up to the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit for a few hours of observation. Once Dr. Peterson gave the green light he was to be moved to a regular room to rest before being discharged, incredibly by the following late afternoon.

When Dr. Peterson had brought the men up to speed on the plan, Buck had had a fit. "What the hell do you mean, you're going to let him go tomorrow? For cryin' out loud the man was at death's door an hour ago! Now you're ready to kick him out on the street?" The ladies' man with the heart of gold looked positively livid standing there with his hands on his slim hips and brown eyes blazing. The others didn't look much better as they glared at Dr. Peterson.

Dr. Peterson looked steadily at them. "I know that it seems that way, but Mr. Standish's heart has returned to a normal sinus rhythm and he's no longer having difficulty breathing. Once I'm satisfied that his heart rhythm will remain stable there really is no reason to keep him here. He needs to go home, rest and give his body a chance to recover from the stress it's been under. Now, before he leaves, he'll be visited by one of our allergists who will make sure he understands how to use an epi-pen that he'll have to carry with him at all times from now on. The allergist will want to schedule a follow-up appointment with him as well. Also, I'm going to refer Mr. Standish to a speech therapist that will be able to address his aphasia condition."

In the midst of Ezra's heart crisis, the issue of his allergy to bee venom, and to some extent, his aphasia, had been shoved to the back burner. For a time, the stress and worry, followed by the state of euphoria over Ezra's stabilization had been overwhelming. Now reality butted in, forcing the men to think again of Ezra's long-term health concerns.

Chris stared at the doctor, assessing him as if to judge whether or not the discharge was a cost-cutting insurance call, or truly the doctor's best medical judgment. Peterson did not flinch under the glare of the icy eyes looking at him. Finally Chris spoke. "Thank you, Dr. Peterson. You saved Ezra's life and none us will forget it."

"You're welcome." Dr. Peterson appeared to accept the thanks for what it was: an acknowledgement that Chris Larabee had, and still did, trust Dr. Peterson. "Gentlemen, Mr. Standish is going to be feeling pretty tired for the next few days. Is there someone who can stay with him, maybe keep an eye on him?"

"We got him," Larabee replied laconically. It was understood without having to be said that one of the six would stay over at Ezra's condo, sleeping in his spare bedroom for a day or two until the undercover agent was fully up to fending for himself. They'd figure out just who would stay later.

"Mr. Standish has been sedated. It's very unlikely that he'll wake up until late morning. I suggest you all go home, get some rest and come back in the morning. By then, he'll have been moved to a regular room and you can all visit at once," Peterson suggested.

The men of Team Seven all wanted, _needed _now to see for themselves that Ezra was doing better, but the doctor's words made sense. They were all tired, hungry and the next day was Tuesday and a regular work day. Yes, going home sounded like a plan and every one but Chris Larabee took their leave of the hospital.

Larabee refused to leave until he had laid eyes on the undercover agent and visually confirmed that Ezra was better. The memory of seeing Ezra so corpse-like was burned upon his brain and he badly wanted that image gone, replaced with one of a healthier looking Standish, sleeping peacefully.

He would have that, or not go home until he did.

* * *

Anymore interest in the story here?


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey, thanks everybody for the kind reviews! Are we ready to see how Ezra's faring today? Here we go!**

* * *

**Part Twelve**

"_He's waking up." _

"_No, he ain't."_

"_Yes, he is. Look at his eyes moving underneath the lids."_

The strains of whispered voices were filtering through Ezra's dulled consciousness, gently pushing him out of the calm, quiet place where he'd fled from the pain being inflicted upon him. The voices were an intrusion on the peace of the dark cocoon currently enveloping him. The incessant talking voices were slowly leading him up towards the light of the waking world.

Ezra frowned, wishing the voices would go away.

"_Lookidy, lookidy, I think sleeping beauty here's about to awaken!_

That had to be Buck. Ezra wanted to tell him that he liked it quite well where he was. Standish wasn't at all sure that he wanted to go anywhere near the waking world at the moment. His last memories of being awake had not been pleasant, but rather the stuff of which nightmares were made. He'd never been too fond of pain and in the last few days he'd had plenty of it as his life had seemingly spun out of control.

It seemed he wasn't going to have a say in the matter, though because he could feel his senses coming alive from the stream of stimulating input. The cool sheets beneath him provided a pleasant tactile sensation next to his skin that he found almost luxurious. He couldn't help but enjoy the feel of the cotton fabric as he moved first his bare legs, then a hand against the sheet. His sense of smell brought him closer to full wakefulness too. His nose twitched as it picked up whiffs of familiar scents; a hint of the aftershave Buck favored, a tobacco smell from Larabee's occasional, stressed-induced indulgence, and the clean, antiseptic smell of the hospital.

By now he'd crossed the threshold into full consciousness, but he continued to lie with his eyes closed despite clearly hearing his name being called. A startling revelation came to him then: he discovered that he was no longer feeling the horrible heart palpitations and pounding that made him feel as though his heart was trying to escape right through his chest. Slowly, Ezra raised a hand and tentatively laid it over his heart, and as he did so he marveled at the renewed strength in his limbs.

Another revelation rocked his world: he could breathe with ease again! Finally his lungs remembered, with perfect recall, that they were supposed to supply him with oxygen without the aid of any mechanical devices. Gone was the uncomfortable oxygen mask; banished were the uncomfortable nostril prongs. The shallow panting breaths that had left him feeling dizzy had been replaced by an ability to take slow, deep breaths. As a natural consequence, the sickening dizziness that made him feel so very nauseated was gone, as was the horrendous headache that had plagued his days and nights and made his thoughts muzzy. Ezra wanted to weep for the sheer joy of feeling pain-free and relatively healthy again.

He heard chuckling and at that, Ezra opened first one eye then the other. He found himself looking upon a scene that both touched and embarrassed him at the same time. Six happy, anxious, excited faces were staring down at him. The myriad of emotions showed so plainly on these men's faces that it threatened to overwhelm him.

His colleagues, his friends were looking that way because of _him, _a man who'd been raised friendless and had not really known what family was until he had found himself in the Denver ATF office. His life had never been the same since then, but this was by far the strangest twist his life had taken. He'd gone to a friendly barbeque at his boss's home and ended up taking a side trip into hell, but he knew that every one of those six emotional-looking faces had stayed by his side, watched over him, and lent him their strength when he thought he wasn't going to make it.

"Good to see you looking so much better, Ezra," Chris Larabee drawled. The corners of Larabee's, usually set mouth crooked upward slightly - a perfect accessory to the eyes that looked so uncharacteristically joyful.

Ezra opened his mouth to utter some clever rejoinder but then quickly closed it when a flood of memories began flowing through his mind. There was a memory of him crying in Chris' arms and the taciturn leader's acceptance of his weeping as if there was nothing shameful or out of the ordinary about it. Ezra recalled too, Vin's quiet, comforting presence at his side, and Josiah's deep voice softly reading to him. There were memories of JD's jokes, of Nathan's steady hands ministering to him, and Buck's gentle encouragement - he remembered it all.

And the aphasia - he remembered that too.

Standish shuddered. Oh how he hated any hindrance to his ability to communicate as he wished. As a child, his vocabulary had been impressively extensive. Maude had taught him to wield words in a precise manner - like tools in order to confound, charm, or manipulate for her benefit. The adult Ezra Standish employed those same verbal skills in the performance of the job he so dearly loved.

He was also accustomed to using words in another, but just as important, arena as his professional career. Ezra had learned to forge his speech into a protective shield held tightly over both his emotions and his heart that had too oft been thoughtlessly trampled over. To have had his language skills suddenly taken away where the others could witness his fear and humiliation had been excruciatingly painful.

Ezra lay in quiet contemplation while his friends waited anxiously. When he'd been a small boy, Maude could not abide illness or weakness in him of any kind. She'd ignored him or pawned him off on the nearest relative, real or faux, during the course of normal childhood illnesses.

On the other hand, his friends had not treated him that way during his illness. To Ezra's amazement, he'd become terribly sick, weaker than a new born babe, and yet none of the six had walked away as had happened to him all too many times with Maude.

Even before the fateful Saturday gathering at Larabee's house, he'd already come such a long way in the way he related to those six men. Still, it hadn't been enough to keep him from feeling ashamed or from wanting to give in to the deeply-seated need to hide his condition from them. _Well no more._ Today would be the start of a new day. Right then and there Ezra resolved to allow the dreadful episode in his life to change him further - but this time, for the better. He was determined to work as hard as he could to overcome the aphasia, and he would damn well learn to accept that he didn't have to feel shame or fear over any imagined negative way his friends would treat him because of it. He could and he would accept that his friends genuinely cared for him and would not think less of him for his infirmity.

Ezra left off with his musings when just then he noticed the changing expressions of the men gathered around him. The elated, hopeful expressions on the faces above were falling and concerned looks were taking over in the wake of his continued silence.

Ezra couldn't help himself. He smiled as a warmth he'd never before felt suffused his soul and manifested itself upon his visage. These men - these brothers of his - needed to be reassured that he was all right. He had no doubt that he'd not been alone in his suffering. Their faces told him that he'd indeed gone through hell, but he'd also unintentionally dragged them all along for the awful journey. Ezra licked his dry lips and mustering all his powers of concentration, he spoke, "Chris, Buck. Nathan, Vin..." His voice trailed off momentarily before he continued. "JD, Josiah." The names rolled softly off his tongue in his southern-accented voice that sounded unusually thick. He paused and concentrated even harder on saying what he wanted. "I am exceedingly sorry if I am the reason you gentlemen look so appalling."

The concerned expressions morphed into baffled-looking ones when Ezra's friends heard, "This is sorry many am when I was working there are gentlemen looking kerswiney," There was a moment of awkward silence while his friends looked at each other, trying to puzzle out just what Ezra had been trying to say.

Chris glanced surreptitiously at Ezra, fully expecting to deal with a devastated Standish in the wake of his still very present aphasia. Instead, Larabee was pleasantly surprised to see that Standish had apparently recovered at least one of his well-developed skills - that of assuming an unreadable poker faced expression, for Ezra was calmly looking at them all expectantly.

Suddenly Buck snickered and plopped his lanky form on the edge of Ezra's bed. "You're sorry 'cause you think _we_ look bad?" he asked with exaggerated incredulousness. Buck winked and the others visibly relaxed as they took their cue from the handsome ladies' man. Buck leaned over as if to whisper to Ezra but his voice carried loud enough to include the others in the conspiracy. "You're lucky I don't hold up a mirror in front of your face. Let's just say you ain't exactly ready for that GQ cover, hoss."

JD chuckled. "Ah c'mon, Buck, that's not fair. Besides, on his worst day, Ezra still looks better than you on your best."

The vain man threw his younger roommate an injured look that, truth be told, was not entirely a product of exaggeration. Ezra laughed at the sight. It felt so incredibly good to be able do something as simple as laugh so he did it again, this time savoring the sound and feeling. He knew his speech had been very difficult to understand and it still burned him to have his friends hear it but he was determined to not let it take away the joy of this moment of finding himself not only alive, but feeling infinitely so much better.

Ezra grew somber as he quietly regarded Chris Larabee, the hard-edged, scarred leader of this ragtag band of brothers. As he did so, he turned over in his mind his most recent reality. He'd been on the verge of death, so close to going over the edge despite the quality medical care. Ezra knew with certainty but for Larabee's voice demanding that he hold on, that he would have folded his cards and permanently relinquished his place in the game of life. At this very moment his body would be lying cold in the hospital morgue instead of ensconced in a warm bed surrounded by six joyous faces that represented peace and safety.

Ezra caught Chris' attention and he watched as the blond's elusive smile vanished and Larabee looked quizzically back at him.

The enigmatic Southerner felt no need to verbalize his message. Instead, he deliberately dropped the barrier forged from the carefully cultivated neutral expression he often wore as protection against the world and allowed his face to become a transparent window to his soul. Ezra hoped that the expression on his face would convey the depth of gratitude that he felt to the man for having stayed with him through the worst of his ordeal. He let his eyes carry the message far more eloquently than he could manage with his tongue. With luminous eyes overflowing with gratitude, he thanked Chris for bullying him into hanging on to life. He thanked him for holding on to him.

The laughter died down to a respectful silence as the other men observed Ezra and Chris seemingly locked in a silent conversation of their own.

It didn't take long. Chris had understood Ezra's message and he acknowledged it with a nod of his head and murmured words meant for Ezra alone. "You would've done the same for any of us."

And to Ezra's relief and a small bit of wonder, he found that what Chris said was true. He _would _have done the same had any of his brothers by choice had needed him in that way. He smiled again at the realization until weariness began to move in. Standish felt his eyes drifting shut and a soothing lethargy steal over him. His body needed the rest but he fought gamely against the urge to sleep. He wasn't quite through with experiencing the novelty of his pain-free body, nor was he ready to quit the presence of his friends.

Nathan, however, saw Ezra's struggle and immediately moved into medic mode. He smiled gently down at Ezra and said in his soothing, baritone voice, "Go to sleep, Ezra. The doctor says you'll be going home late this afternoon but you're still gonna be mighty sleepy for a good while."

Ezra concentrated and he managed to get out a flawless, "okay" right before his heavy lids began to drift shut over jade orbs and the world of bright colors and gladdened faces gently faded to black.

*****

Late afternoon found Ezra reclining on top of his hospital bed, dressed in the casual clothes that Vin had managed to snag from the bedroom highboy in his condo. Like many things as concerns the undercover agent, it was a myth that his wardrobe consisted only of designer clothes - business suits, or otherwise. He was a man who also enjoyed his comforts and as such, he actually owned more than one pair of sweat pants. He often lounged about in them and a comfortable t-shirt in the solitude of his home, particularly after a long day's work at the office or stressful undercover meet.

Vin hadn't come alone to the hospital to retrieve Ezra. Although the lot had fallen on the quiet sharpshooter to both take Standish home after his discharge and stay at his place for a few days, Nathan had insisted upon coming along for the ride, citing the necessity of ensuring that he, as Team Medic, as well as Ezra, understood the discharge plan regarding aftercare for his aphasia and allergy.

Ezra, Nathan could tell, was having a difficult time hiding his anxiety - no doubt brought on partially by his eagerness to go home as well as what had to be his concerns regarding his long-term health. Observing Ezra, Nathan had thought his friend looked rather like Ebenezer Scrooge as the character waited anxiously for the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future to call upon him.

In Ezra's case, his first visitor was Dr. Neha Shah. The beautiful doctor accompanied by an unknown. portly older male doctor, had come over from ICU simply to see for herself how her former patient was doing and to wish Ezra well upon his discharge. Ezra had clearly been charmed by her kindness and intrigued by her unique beauty, but he could only sigh in frustration over his inability to thank her properly as he longed to do. Instead, he had painstakingly written a very short, almost error-free note of thanks that had him blushing furiously as she read it. When she was finished reading, Dr. Shah smiled a warm, genuine smile at her former patient. "I wish you all the best, Mr. Standish -"

"Ezra," he'd interrupted in a firm verbalization.

"Ezra," Dr. Shah repeated, her smile growing wider. "You are a very lucky man to not only be alive, but to have some _very _determined men backing you up."

This time, Ezra wrote out his response, "I know." Then Ezra looked questioningly at the older gentlemen who had accompanied Dr. Shah. The portly, balding doctor held a small mesh bag in one hand. The man was quickly introduced as Dr. Jeffers, from the Allergy, Asthma, and Immunization Clinic.

"Mr. Standish, it's a pleasure to meet you," the allergist said. He held out a pudgy hand and Ezra took it and the two shook hands. Then Jeffers reached into the mesh bag, pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Ezra. It was a printout from the clinic containing the date and time of an appointment.

"I'd like to see you for further evaluation at this date and time. Just call if that isn't a good time for you and we'll reschedule."

Next, Jeffers produced a small object encased in a cylinder container and a brochure. "This, Mr. Standish is your first and hopefully only Epipen you'll need. Depending on how you look at it, should you require a prescription for a new one it's a good thing because that means that you were prepared and ready to use this one when you needed it. On the other hand, this Epipen won't do you any good if you don't have it on you when you need it, or if you don't know how to use it. I'm going to show you how."

Dr. Jeffers proceeded to uncap the cylinder. "The first thing you need to do is be aware of the symptoms of anaphylactic shock. If you get stung again you will experience severe symptoms ranging from hives, swelling, shortness of breath and tightening of your chest. Your blood pressure will drop and most likely you'll lose consciousness. You may even experience bouts of severe diarrhea and nausea.''

Ezra flushed with embarrassment at the mention of the last two symptoms. Earlier he'd made the mistake of asking Vin about getting his original designer attire back he'd had on under the borrowed baseball shirt. That was when his long-haired friend had become visibly uncomfortable, looking briefly away before looking him in the eye and matter-of-factly saying, "Don't think ya want those back, Ez." With his eyes, the sharpshooter begged Ezra not to ask why, but he'd persisted anyway. Sighing, Vin had answered truthfully, "Ya soiled 'em up pretty badly, pard."

Ezra simply shrugged - but he hadn't said or written a word after that and he didn't now that Dr. Jeffers was explaining things to him.

The allergist continued. "This contains a single, pre-measured dose of epinephrine. If you use this you will need to bring the empty container back and obtain a new prescription," Dr. Jeffers said. He held up the pen and explained carefully how Ezra was to inject it into his thigh. When he was finished with his demonstration, he asked Ezra if he had any questions.

Standish shook his head 'no'.

"All right then. The last thing you need to remember is that even if you inject yourself immediately after being stung then you still need to seek medical care. Call 9-1-1 or have someone drive you to the nearest hospital emergency room. This is important because the medicinal effects of the epinephrine last only for about 15 to 20 minutes."

Ezra tried and failed to hide his growing devastation as he nodded his head soberly and took the medicine and brochure and carefully placed them back into the mesh bag as the doctor took his leave.

"C'mon, Ez, it ain't that bad. Lots of folks carry epipens with them and never have to use them," Nathan said softly having observed the look on the Southerner's face.

_I'm sure they do. But most people weren't law enforcement undercover agents. _Ezra thought gloomily.

With Ezra's drastic improvement in health came the ability to contemplate what impact his new condition would have on his career. He cursed himself for being a coward and being too scared to ask Chris or Nathan outright about his future as an undercover agent. The truth was, he was terrified that if he asked he would receive an answer that would shatter what he considered the one and only acceptable outcome to this entire ordeal. The belief that he had only to work hard to overcome his aphasia and take necessary precautions regarding his allergy as a condition for obtaining the green light to resume his career was what was fueling his desire to leave the hospital and keep all of his upcoming medical appointments.

The very thought of being stripped of his career made him feel sick to his stomach. And what of his mother? Just then the memory of having asked Chris to send for Maude splashed over him like a wave of cold water. _Oh God, what have I done?_ A frantic look came over Ezra's face and he looked around as if expecting his mother's imminent appearance in the doorway.

"Easy Ezra, what's wrong?" Vin asked, perceiving his friend's distress.

Ezra regained control of himself and hastily scribbled, 'nothing'.

Nathan and Vin looked at each other before Vin spoke. "That's a whole lot of 'nothing' but we respect your privacy. Let us know if we can help."

Ezra sighed and picked up the pen and paper again. 'Awren mother seeing here?' he wrote.

Vin mouthed the words as he read them silently. Never a strong reader, due to his dyslexia, Vin had a harder time than the others in deciphering Ezra's intended message. He stood aside and let Nathan have a go. Nathan's expressive eyes scanned the paper until a knowing look came across his dark face. "You want to know when Maude will be here, right?"

Ezra nodded his head.

"I don't know exactly, but Josiah does. I do know that she's already on her way."

This news did not please Ezra. Had it been in his power, he would have immediately turned his mother around and sent her back to Monte Carlo. True, he _had_ wanted his mother there when the very thought of never seeing her again was a very real possibility, but he was no longer seriously ill and facing an early demise.

Just then his present doctor, Dr. Peterson, entered the room. The charismatic, confident doctor appeared to be in an exceptionally jovial mood. He clapped Ezra shoulder. "Well, this is a hell of a lot better than the exit you had planned don't you agree? You ready to get sprung from this place?" he asked as he placed his stethoscope on Ezra's chest for one last examination.

Ezra couldn't help but crack a smile wide enough to show his gold tooth. He deeply appreciated Dr. Peterson's timely arrival and his ability to instantly make him believe that everything was going to be all right. Dr. Peterson was right. He had been about the check-out and but for the doctor's quick action, this day would not exist for one Ezra Standish.

"Your heart sounds great, Mr. Standish."

"Ezra." For the second time that day Ezra found himself encouraging one of his doctors to call him by his first name. Peterson smiled and obliged him, then his face grew serious. "Ezra, as you can tell, electrical cardioversion is a highly safe and effective way that works more than 90% of the time in restoring normal heart rhythm. Fortunately for you, that 90% figure included you."

Ezra nodded his head and his hand moved to his chest to absently rub the slightly burned and irritated skin.

"But you should be aware that about half the patients who have had successful cardioversion experience reoccurring abnormal rhythms within one year," Peterson continued. "Now I don't believe you need be concerned," the doctor hastened to add upon seeing Ezra's dismayed expression. Even Vin who had been lounging casually by the window straightened up when he heard that. "The reason this is not a likely a concern for you is that the success of cardioversion often depends on the duration of atrial fibrillation and the underlying cause. If you suffered from some type of heart disease my prognosis would not be so optimistic."

Ezra felt nearly weak with relief at hearing Dr. Peterson's strong assurances.

Dr. Peterson pulled out an appointment card and a prescription. "I'd like to see you for a follow-up appointment one week from today." Dr. Peterson handed to Ezra the card as well as the paper upon which the prescription was written. "This is a prescription for an anticoagulant. You'll need to be on it for an additional four weeks." Dr. Peterson paused to access his patient's reaction. "Do you have any questions, Ezra?"

Ezra's glanced quickly over at Nathan and then away. He knew he was frowning as his anxiety about the future spiked again. Quickly he shook his head.

"I'll see you a week from today. In the meantime, go home and relax."

Dr. Peterson turned as if to leave, but Ezra snagged him by the arm and gestured for him to wait as he wrote out a note of thanks. When he finished he handed the note to Dr. Peterson who took it and read it carefully.

Ezra anxiously watched Dr. Peterson's studious looking face. Suddenly Peterson flashed a brilliant smile. His patient had remembered the joking comment he'd made about the awful-tasting throat spray. "I'd be happy to share a glass of that vintage bourbon with you someday. Just let me know when and where."

Peterson left leaving Ezra, Vin and Nathan to await the third and final physician's visit.

*******

Nathan observed Ezra's energy levels flagging and he began to pace, wanting to get the undercover agent home soon so that he could rest. The medic hoped the next visitor would come soon.

Nathan soon got his wish when the person whom Ezra would be spending a lot of time with in the future appeared in the doorway. It turned out that Ezra's last visitor was a woman about Josiah's age. She was tall and she wore her gray-streaked, red hair in a short style befitting her face. The wire-framed glasses she wore were perched on her plain, but strong-featured face. She reminded Ezra of one of his school teachers he'd had as a youth.

The woman strode over to him and without hesitation, shook his hand and introduced herself saying, "good afternoon, Mr. Standish. My name is Lillian Spencer. I'm a speech language pathologist and I'm going to be working with you on setting goals for your aphasia rehabilitation. Notice I said 'rehabilitation', not recovery. I cannot guarantee you a complete reversal of this condition, but I promise you that if you are willing to work hard and are patient with yourself, we will go as far as the injury to your brain will allow."

When Ezra made to write out his reply, Ms. Spencer stopped him and asked that he speak to her. Ezra automatically clutched the pen and notebook tighter. He wasn't ready for whatever impromptu examination she had planned. _Uh oh, _Nathan thought, observing Ezra. He could tell Ezra was tired and trying hard not to show it. What he hadn't managed to conceal very well was the stubborn streak of rebellion that had sparked to life deep within the jade eyes. Nathan recognized the disastrous signs and he quickly intervened so that Ezra would not start off on a bad foot with the person he would most likely be spending a lot of time with in the near future.

"Uhm, Ms. Spencer, I'm Nathan Jackson. I'm the medic for ATF Team Seven. Do you think we could start off fresh with a meeting in your office another time when Ezra here's not so tired? In the meantime, I'd like very much to learn more about your department and some of the therapies for aphasia." Nathan glanced over at Vin before smoothly shepherding the speech pathologist out the door.

After Jackson and Spencer left, Ezra slumped down in the bed, exhausted. He didn't know what had come over him and he was ashamed of his behavior.

Vin quickly gauged his friend's mood. "I'll be right back, pard."

It seemed to Ezra that he had no more closed his eyes when the sharpshooter made good on his word. He came through the door backwards while maneuvering a wheelchair in front of him. Vin pushed the chair all the way to Ezra's bedside. "Your ride is here. Are ya ready to get while the getting's good?"

"Yes," Ezra replied, giving a weary and relieved two-fingered salute. He managed to push himself up and rise to his own two feet without any aid. Then he sat himself down in the chair and allowed Vin Tanner to push the chair out of the room, down the hall and into the elevator.

When at last the two reached the exit located at the hospital's main lobby, Vin pushed the chair close to the door and offered to bring his jeep to the front. Tanner was not at all surprised when Ezra frowned, shaking his head 'no'. "I'm not an invalid where I can't walk through a parking lot," Ezra groused just for emphasis.

Just exactly what Ezra had said was a mystery to Vin, but what he did understand clearly was the word, 'walk'. "Yeah, yeah, I got it - ya wanna walk. Okay, but I'm not picking your stubborn ass off the ground if ya change yer mind half-way to the Jeep."

Ezra gifted Vin with a 'not-gonna-happen-look', stood up from the wheelchair, and began following Vin out the sliding glass double doors and across the parking lot. Half-way through the parking lot, on their way to maneuvering their way through the black asphalt obstacle course of cars, Ezra's body began sending him some rather unhappy signals that he'd been somewhat over ambitious. He marshaled his waning strength and prayed that he wouldn't have to call upon Vin and thus embarrass himself as the gap between himself and Vin grew larger. Why the hell did he have to feel so exhausted anyway? He could see Vin's battered Jeep five rows up. The way he was feeling, it might as well have been five miles away.

He trudged on, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, not really noticing how the perceptive Vin had instinctively slowed his pace without ever having turned around. Eventually, Vin ended up right beside him and Ezra heard the sharpshooter say in a low, encouraging voice, "It ain't much farther, Ez.''

And Ezra found that it was true - so long as he kept his gaze off of Vin's Jeep parked in the outer limits.

He was bone weary by the time he reached his destination. Standish sighed with inward relief. He couldn't ever recall being so happy to get inside and strap himself into Vin's battered Jeep.

He closed his eyes and within seconds, was asleep before Vin's Jeep even exited the parking lot.

*******

Vin pulled his Jeep into the parking lot of Ezra's condominium complex known as the Bella Piazza. Ezra's head, with its thick, chestnut-colored hair, was tilted back and his mouth was slightly open. Vin reached over and gave the sleeping man's shoulder a firm shake. "C'mon Ezra, we're here," the Texan drawled softy.

Ezra's eyelids opened and he looked blearily at Vin. Tanner shook his head. The lights were on, but clearly nobody was home. He'd have to take charge in getting Standish out of his Jeep and up to his condo.

Vin came around and opened Ezra's door. Taking the tired man by the arm, he led him out and up the walkway to the building's entrance. By then an upright Ezra had rallied a bit. Standish was shuffling along, head down, determined to make it. They rode the elevator up to the third floor in silence.

Vin glared back at the middle-aged couple who, with tongues clucking, had quickly exited at the second floor. It was true that Ezra looked rough and hung over, but the couple had stared in open disgust at first Ezra and then at his own long-hair and casual attire. Harsh judgment had been in their expressions. Vin didn't particularly care what the monied couple thought about him. He chose to live among the less economically advantaged in the poor, crime-ridden neighborhood of Purgatorio and had seen that kind of look often enough outside of the neighborhood. But Ezra was another matter. Vin couldn't say precisely why, but it rankled his otherwise laid-back nerves to see his courageous, classy friend looked down upon that way.

After the encounter, they reached Ezra's unit without incident. Vin swiftly opened the door using the spare key Ezra had given him for emergencies.

Once inside, Ezra gratefully sunk down into his expensive, but comfortable Italian leather sofa while Vin ambled into the kitchen to round up something light for Standish to eat and drink. He moved swiftly knowing that if he didn't, Ezra would fall asleep on the couch and then it would be nearly impossible to get the stubborn man up and into his bed where he could rest properly.

Vin brought over a chicken deli sandwich and a glass of water with sliced lemons. "Eat this before you go to bed." Ezra looked at the food in an apparently thoroughly disinterested fashion. "I know ya don't particularly feel up to food right now, Ez, but ya gotta eat something and then ya gotta get off the couch and into yer bed." Ezra's expression made Vin laugh. The Southerner's mouth said 'thank you' but his eyes said, 'Oh no'.

Yes, Vin knew he was sounding every bit as bossy as Nathan when he was in full-medic mode, but he didn't know what else to do.

Speaking of Nathan - the doorbell rang and Vin got up to answer the door to find the medic standing on the other side. Jackson entered the condo and inquired after Ezra. Vin hooked his thumb in the direction of the living room. "He's on the couch. I'm tryin' to get him to eat something, but all he wants to do is fall asleep there."

"Let me see." Nathan replied. He stepped into the living room and approached Ezra. The undercover agent was already listing wearily to the side and Nathan didn't think he knew that he was there. The medic also saw that at least three bites were missing from the sandwich and the glass of water was less than half full. "Vin, gimme a hand with him, would you? I think we should go ahead get him into bed now. He's had enough food and once he gets a good couple of hours of sleep, he'll be pretty much back to his old self, energy-wise."

The men took hold of Ezra's arms and assisted the green-eyed Southerner to his unsteady feet. With Ezra between them, Vin and Nathan steered him to his bedroom. Like a well-choreographed ballet, they managed to get the bed turned down, Ezra stripped down to his boxers and tucked under the covers. The two men left Ezra sleeping like a baby on his silk sheets and goose-down comforter, an expression of bliss on his face.

At last, Ezra Standish had come home after a Saturday get-together gone wrong.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**Here we are readers with another chapter. I want to thank each and every one of you for the very kind reviews! I want to also let you know that there will be some delay before the next chapter, but please rest assured, this story WILL be finished and I anticipate wrapping things up in 3 - 4 more chapters.**

* * *

**Part Thirteen**

_Wednesday_

The glowing red numbers on Larabee's nightstand alarm clock displayed 6:00 am as the Team Seven leader got dressed with deliberate, efficient movements. He'd stepped into pressed black pants, before placing his socked feet into dark leather, low-cut boots. Then he'd donned a navy blue blazer over his black polo. Now standing in front of his bathroom mirror, Larabee carefully combed his hair. As he did so, he tried to ignore the thought that came to him with ever-increasing frequency whenever he combed his short, blond strands: his hair was starting to thin. Was is any wonder? It seemed remarkable to Larabee, now more than ever, that as the leader of six rough and ready, hard-chargin', devil-challenging men, he had any hair left at all, thinning or otherwise. Good thing he wasn't a vain man, he'd often thought. These past few days of dealing with Ezra's health crisis may not have actually thinned his hair, but certainly they had stripped the color out of a few prominent strands leaving behind a more geriatric shade.

Chris grimaced. He had become accustomed to the high levels of stress his job entailed. Aside from Ezra, each of the other five men had, at one time or another, been the source of a new strand of grey hair or two on his head. Once towards the end of a bust gone bad, a bullet had nicked Vin's artery and he'd almost bled to death in his arms. Chris could recall all too clearly the days of long waiting and sleepless nights spent while Vin fought to stay alive. Buck and JD too had left their own contributions of gray strands too. Both had once been badly injured at the same time during one particularly intense case, and on another occasion, Josiah had contracted a severe case of pneumonia. For a time, the prognosis had not been good for the older man and Chris had privately anticipated his passing. During that particular crisis, Nathan had become a silent, emotional mess for he and Josiah were very close. The loss of the older man would have been unbearably painful for the medic. Chris had never told Nathan, but he had kept a close eye on him, all the while feeling frustrated by what he perceived as his own limitations in being able to fashion the right words to say to encourage the depressed medic.

And then there was Ezra. The seventh member of the team consistently alternated between amazing him with feats of extraordinary undercover skills and exasperating the hell out of him with his stubbornness, complex personality, and what Larabee sometimes mistook as Ezra's willingness to completely disregard all thoughts of his own safety in certain high-stress undercover situations. That of course was not true. When necessary, Ezra called upon bold courage to extricate himself from situations gone suddenly bad, and since Standish abhorred unnecessary risk-taking and as such, he paid close attention to detail and left nothing to chance.

That's partially why this particular incident had been so much harder to endure. Ezra's dangerous work had had nothing to do with the situation he was currently in, but just as Larabee was there when Ezra's undercover work sometimes resulted in the Southerner incurring injury from bullets, knives, or brutality at the end of some goon's fists, Larabee had been right there for Ezra when he'd been injured while off-duty. Chris knew he should let the residual guilt go, but the truth was, he was nowhere near being over what had happened to his undercover agent. Ezra Standish had been hurt on his property. Not only had he been injured and almost died, he'd been damaged in a permanent, life-altering way. No matter what anyone said, Chris still carried a hefty dose of guilt around in his heart for that, despite what his intellect told him.

Chris felt as though he'd been on a wild roller coaster ride that only yesterday had slowed for a break upon Ezra's release from the hospital. But he was a man who lived firmly in reality and in his life experience, the break was more likely a temporary lull and not an opportunity to permanently disembark.  
For one thing, a few hours from now, Standish' mother was set to arrive at the Denver airport. Josiah had volunteered to pick her up and deliver her to her son's residence.

Personally, Chris was surprised but glad for Ezra that his mother was actually coming. He had no love for Maude Standish whatever-string-of-names she was sporting. He thought her a pretentious, selfish, greedy woman who was responsible for much of the emotional scars and loneliness that Ezra fought so hard to keep hidden. Still, at a time when Ezra's continued existence had not at all been a sure thing, the woman had been willing to drop everything and fly across the ocean to be with her only child. Chris respected that and he'd do all he could to help Maude have a successful visit with her son.

Then there was Ezra's tenuous position as an ATF undercover agent. Chris' mouth tightened at the prospect of putting Ezra through an ordeal that, according to Nathan, most likely would not have a favorable outcome for Ezra. And an unfavorable outcome for Ezra was an unfavorable outcome for Team Seven. He'd already spoken to Judge Orrin Travis about the situation. Travis had been empathetic, but immovable. There would be no exception to the rules regarding the medical review process. An active field agent who had developed a life-threatening physical condition had to undergo a thorough examination by the Medical Review Board to determine their suitability for continued active field service. Any day now a letter would be issued to him and he was expected, as Ezra's boss, to convey the news to him concerning the date, time, and place of the medical board.

Chris was not a man who ever shirked his duty or ran away from difficult challenges, but at times like this, he wished he could delegate this aspect of his job to Buck. In his opinion, his oldest friend was much better at finessing his way through difficult situations requiring emotional sensitivity and strong interpersonal skills - especially situations involving one Ezra P. Standish.

Larabee though, was not entirely correct in his self-assessment of his abilities. Though the Southerner challenged him, argued with him, and vexed him to no end, Ezra Standish had given his hard-won loyalty and his trust to him. Over time, and after having overcome a few missteps in dealing with each other, Larabee had come to accept the fact that Standish deeply respected him for his leadership qualities and strength of character. He was Ezra's friend as well as his boss and Chris instinctively knew that he was one of the few people in the world Ezra would prefer to deliver news that would inevitably set the procedural wheels in motion that could lead to the loss of his job. If and when that time came to break the news to Ezra, Larabee vowed that he would be compassionate but to the point. Bullshitting around the situation was neither an option, nor his style. Nonetheless, Ezra would need a friend and he was prepared to be one. If Standish wanted to talk, he'd let him talk regardless of whether or not he could completely understand him. If he wanted to rail and throw things, he'd let him, and if Ezra wanted to get blind, stinking, drunk he'd give him a safe place to do it and watch over him too.

Chris checked the time on his wristwatch. It was 6:20 am and he needed to leave his remote ranch and head on out into Denver's early morning rush hour traffic headache now in order to arrive at work by 7:30 am. Larabee grabbed his keys, tucked his wallet in his pants pocket and strolled out into the semi-darkened, quiet living room. He walked past the great stone fireplace, refusing to look towards the mantle where the sight of the object resting there caused him to feel throbbing pangs of sorrow. Though not nearly as soul-deep as the agony that had driven him to the bottle after the deaths of Sara and Adam, he was surprised by the intensity of the grief he was feeling.

The small, innocuous box he'd carefully placed atop the fireplace mantle held all that remained of his beloved dog, Devil. Gone was the familiar clacking sound of nails on the kitchen tile. Cold was the corner of Chris's bed where Devil had once staked his claim despite his master's efforts to keep him out of it. The food and water bowls were empty and no longer did an eager beast stand over them, tail wagging in anticipation. The house was a silent, still reminder that Chris Larabee was alone. Always alone. The safety and privacy of his own home was the only place Larabee could permit himself to truly grieve the loss of his faithful companion, and yet he'd still been unable to release his tight grip over his emotions. True, a bitter tear or two had moistened his eyes, but he'd not released his pain in the final act of scattering Devil's ashes over the creek out back as he had yet to do.

There was a big oak tree in one spot by the creek and that area had been one of Devil's favorite places to roam whenever Chris sought a peaceful place outdoors to think and clear his head. It was the only place that he could think of that would not fill his heart with grief knowing that Devil's ashes had mingled with the cool earth and clean water. But Chris had not the time, nor the inclination for the task.

For a moment Chris paused at the door, hand on the handle. It felt so wrong, so unreal that all that remained of his faithful friend could rest in a container atop a piece of wood. Why did it seem as though all he had to do was open that front door and Devil would come bounding in, tail wagging, tongue licking, and eyes shining with happiness? The hard, rational part of him knew that wasn't going to happen, but for one brief moment the feeling that the dog was still alive was so strong that he almost called aloud Devil's name.

Chris' jaw tightened as he, without a backward glance, stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

Later. There was always later to take care of the dead.

*******

Josiah Sanchez stood in the concourse dedicated to international flight arrivals at the Denver Airport. The big man used his height advantage to look for the stylish figure of Maude Standish-Deveraux- LaCroix-Bancroft to appear amongst the teaming crowd of disembarked passengers. After 15 minutes his efforts were rewarded when he saw the striking figure of Maude Standish walking down the concourse side by side with a young, handsome businessman with whom she was engaged in friendly conversation. Ezra's mother was impeccably dressed in medium heels, knit skirt and sleeveless shirt ensemble. Her fine, silvery blond hair was perfectly coifed with not a strand out of place. The businessman walking with her was carrying not only his own briefcase in one hand but a feminine-looking designer carry-on bag, clearly belonging to Maude, in the other.

He found himself grinning at the sight - partly in relief that Ezra's mother had not changed her mind at the last minute about coming, and partly because spiritual man or no, his eyes darn well appreciated a handsomely-made woman when they saw one. Josiah's fool's heart always fluttered at the sight of Maude Standish and much to Ezra's initial horror and later amusement, he found that he became especially attentive to her whenever he was in her presence.

Maude was almost upon Josiah, oblivious to the big man's presence before she turned her head and their eyes met. Josiah couldn't help it. A jolt ran through the big profiler when he suddenly found himself looking into eyes so familiar. Maude's eyes were of the same bright jade as the ones he saw everyday in Ezra's face.

Before she reached Josiah, Maude turned and gave a genteel yet firmly dismissive good-bye to the young businessman as she took back her travel-case. Once she drew near to Josiah, she gave the man her full attention as the two of them took up walking towards the baggage claim, side by side.

"Mr. Sanchez, you're looking remarkably well," Maude artfully flirted. Her perfectly painted lips curved into a flattering smile, but Josiah noticed the hint of strain upon the beautiful face she could not entirely conceal.

"I'm quite well, thank you, " Josiah's deep voice rumbled. "And you look exquisite despite what must have been a tiring flight."

Maude laughed with forced gaiety. "You're too kind. Of course I'm well rested; all I did was sleep," she lied. "The food was dreadful. Who do the airlines hire for chefs these days, monkeys?" She was babbling and Josiah knew that Maude knew it.

Sanchez stopped and spoke words intended to alleviate the woman's concern. "Ezra's been discharged from the hospital. He's recovering at home and Vin's staying with him until he gets his strength back."

Maude searched Josiah's face for any deception. "Really." That was all Maude said for moment, but in the small sound was a world of unspoken relief, at finding none. "I had hoped to stay…" Maude's thought trailed off, remaining incomplete. Josiah thought that Ezra's mother was more tired than she realized for his keen eyes had caught the briefest look of disappointment that flashed across her face before it disappeared like lighting at the news that there was already someone at her son's place taking care of him. Maude started walking again and Josiah moved to keep up with her.

"He made a reservation for you at the Four Seasons Hotel. He knows that you'll be comfortable there," Josiah said hurriedly.

"Well I'm sure he hardly expects me to sleep on his sofa," Maude said somewhat testily. She kept walking, looking straight ahead rather than at Josiah.

Sanchez made no reply. He knew for a fact that Ezra's fancy Italian leather couch was actually quite comfortable to sleep on. He'd bunked there once when he, Buck, and JD had stayed up late playing poker and he'd had one beer too many to trust himself on the road. Ezra had graciously offered him his spare bedroom, but instead he'd fallen asleep on the sofa. "The hotel isn't far from Ezra's place. I'll be happy to take you there after you visit with Ezra."

Maude shook her head. "No. No. I want to go to the hotel first and freshen up. I'll be along later."

Stunned, Josiah protested, "But Ezra's waiting to see you. He knows I've gone to fetch you from the airport."

Maude stopped at that. "Did you not say that Ezra is at home?"

"Yes, I did."

"And did you not say that my boy is recovering?"

"Yes," Josiah answered slowly, "but -"

Maude's green eyes, so like her son's flashed. "Then he's no longer at death's door as you led me to believe. The crisis is over and my going to my well-appointed hotel room for a few precious hours of rest and relaxation will hardly make a difference now will it?"

Sanchez bit the inside of his cheek and silently counted to ten. There was no point in getting angry over the woman's seemingly callous remark, nor was there any sense in trying to change Maude Standish's mind, after all she was here in Denver and she'd be along to see her son in due time. "At least you can let me drive you to your hotel," Josiah offered once he knew he'd gotten his tongue under control.

"Why thank you, Josiah." Maude smiled winsomely and just like that, the brief moment of tension was dispelled with the sound of his given name coming from the lips of the beautiful, exasperating woman.

Ezra's eyes blinked lazily open. This was not the first time that he'd awakened. Ezra knew that Vin had been in earlier, quietly checking on him but he'd not quite been ready yet to acknowledge Vin's unobtrusive opportunity for interaction. Instead, he'd chosen to feign being still asleep. Bright sunlight was streaming through the half-closed blinds and Ezra could tell by the slant of the shadows it cast about his bedroom that it was still before the noon hour.

The noon hour.

With a gasp Ezra sat up quickly then instantly regretted it as his head protested the sudden movement. His mother's flight was due in at 11:00 am and he was still slothfully abed. Never mind that he'd spent the last few days lying in one with the word 'death' preceding it and thus had every right. Never mind that despite the fact that he'd slept like the dead, his body still protested his commands to rise and shine. Assuming there were no delays at the airport, Maude would be showing up at his doorstep within the hour and he wanted, no _needed_ to show Maude that he would be fine.

Ezra rose slowly from the comfortable bed, never having felt less guilty for the obscene amount of money he'd spent on it. It was true that he had an appreciation for fine things of quality, but he wasn't a pure hedonist. Simply put, he was just as serious abut caring for and treating his body well as he was to keeping his mind sharp. He did both in order to maintain himself at the top of his game.

And the undercover game was one he was determined to remain a player in despite his new reality. With that thought in mind, Ezra stubbornly ignored his tiredness and slowly made his way over to his bathroom to begin his ablutions. The shower beckoned to him invitingly and Ezra shed his boxers, not bothering to wonder at the loss of his other clothes he last remembered having fallen asleep on the couch wearing.

The warm water from the shower had felt so good against his naked skin and he washed his hair and body, all the while relishing even the ability to perform those simple tasks. His body ached and he still felt maddeningly tired, but in comparison to how bad he had felt for the last previous days, he felt as fit as an Olympic athlete. It was almost as though none of the nightmare of the past few days had ever happened.

Almost.

He was confronted with a hard reminder just after he'd finished his shower. When he'd emerged from the stall, he had dried off, wrapped a towel about his hips, and taken a second towel to rub his hair dry. Once dry he'd draped the second towel around his shoulders and proceeded to brush his teeth. When he was finished he'd removed the towel from his neck and straightened up in front of the mirror. His hollow-eyed reflection brought him face to face with a visible, ugly reminder of just what his body had recently been through.

His chest sported faint burn marks from where the hard paddles had sent agonizing jolts of electricity to his body. The flesh around the burns was slightly bruised and swollen as well. Ezra hadn't noticed any tenderness or irritation when he's first awakened, but now when he gingerly touched one of the burn marks he found it a bit tender. He vaguely recalled that he'd been prescribed a tube of some kind of healing ointment.

Ezra stood in front of the mirror, mesmerized by the sight of the physical evidence of his brush with death. He closed his eyes tightly against the sudden onslaught of disturbing memories. His nostrils seem to fill with the unpleasant smell of his singed flesh, his throat seemed to close as a phantom probe was inserted down his throat, inducing gagging. Ezra swayed as his vision seemed to tunnel into a dark hole accompanied by the ghost of Chris Larabee's voice forbidding him to leave.

Ezra's eyes abruptly snapped open. "Stop this!" he harshly whispered out loud, conscious of the fact that he had no idea what words had really come out of his mouth - not that it mattered, but it was one more reminder of how his world had changed. _Temporarily changed,_ Ezra corrected himself impatiently. Ezra averted his eyes from his pale, bruised image and proceeded to comb his hair. He was forced to confront the image once again when he reached for his electric shaver and prepared to rid his face of the stubble adorning it.

When he finished shaving, Ezra went back into the bedroom to get dressed. He intentionally selected items of clothing that he knew were particularly flattering. If he could enhance the image of health and normalcy in Maude's eyes, so much the better. He slipped into underwear, pants, shirt, shoes and socks, and was just threading a belt through the pant loops when his gaze fell on the object on his nightstand. Ezra grimaced at the sight and the reminder that technically, he wasn't finished getting dressed.

The mess bag resting there on his nightstand contained the last item that would henceforth be his mandatory fashion accessory. Ezra approached the nightstand and warily reached for the bag as if it contained something poisonous. Slowly he reached inside and drew forth the medical alert bracelet the doctor had said he needed to wear from now on.

Ezra turned the bracelet over in his hand, twirling the object in his nimble fingers and trying like hell to pretend that it didn't matter. _It's just a piece of jewelry,_ Ezra tried to rationalize, but the cynical nature of his expression would have been transparent to any observer. _Albeit one I would not have been caught dead wearing a week ago. _The irony of the words cut deeply into Ezra's soul. That bracelet and the epi-pen in the mesh bag may be all that would stand between him and death from something as inconsequential as a bee. And who would want an undercover agent who could die if that same inconsequential bee had the power to take him out just by a sting?

The sudden surge of fear and anger welled-up inside and he shoved the bracelet back into the bag with trembling fingers, letting the bag drop to the carpeted floor. _No. I refuse to wear this - this cheap advertisement of my personal Achille's heel - not where my mother can see it. _Maude was coming here,. They could simply stay indoors, therefore negating any reason for him to put it on, he further reasoned.

Just then Ezra heard a gentle knocking on the door. Quickly, Ezra composed himself and pushed down his sluggishness when he saw Vin's head peeking around the door. "Ya up?" The Texan asked in his soft-spoken voice. Ezra affixed a pleasant expression on his face and nodded his head. "Feel like eating something?"

Ezra considered the question for a moment. He was trying to think of what he might have in his pantry that would not have Vin feeling like he had to cook something for him. For one thing, he detested being thought of an an invalid when he wasn't, and for another, Vin was not a particularly good cook. Ezra took a deep breath, concentrated on what he wanted to say before he opened his mouth to answer. "Yes," he answered.

Joy lit up Vin's blue eyes and the Texan grinned warmly. Ezra couldn't help himself - his own grin, weary as it was, answered Vin's encouraging one. He had been understood. It was only a small, single word, but Standish took heart. If he could do it with one word, surely he could do it with one more and than another, and another until he could string them together and express himself as he was accustomed. "Well all right then," Vin said. "I found some kind of over-priced, organic soup mix so that's what I made. Reckon I can't mess that up too badly."

Ten minutes later, Ezra and Vin were sitting on stools at Ezra's kitchen bar. After a few tentative sips from his spoon, Ezra was soon savoring the taste and texture of the delicious soup. The undercover agent and the ATF sharpshooter ate in companionable silence and if Vin noticed that Ezra's hand holding the spoon wasn't quite as steady as it should be, he did not remark upon it.

As Ezra ate, he looked around surreptitiously to gauge if anything needed tidying up before his mother's arrival. After all he hadn't been home in the last couple of days to do any dusting and Vin wasn't the neatest person. Having found everything in order he shrugged his shoulders sheepishly when he saw Vin looking at him with a knowing expression. "Damn, Ezra, you keep the place so clean you could eat of them wood floors of yers," Vin drawled.

Ezra glanced at the time on his wristwatch and frowned when he saw the time. Maude should be here already. Vin took a guess at the reason for Ezra's sour expression. "Don't worry, Maude will be here soon," Vin assured.

But forty-five minutes later that did not prove true and Ezra found that he lacked the energy necessary to hide from Vin the fact that he was growing increasingly anxious. He tried to look nonchalant while reading a book, but he was too tired to concentrate on the words so he gave up in favor of moving listlessly around his condominium.

Just when he was about to retreat to the privacy of his bedroom, the doorbell rang. _Mother!_ Ezra turned around and Vin gave him an encouraging smile. Standish took a deep breath and started walking towards the front door while Vin retreated discretely to the spare bedroom.

Ezra grasped the door handle and swung the door wide open, ready to embrace his mother. Only it was not Maude Standish at the door accompanied by Josiah laden down with his mother' suitcases. Josiah Sanchez stood alone and empty handed. The older man bore the expression that all who knew him recognized as his 'counselor's face and Ezra's heart immediately sank to his stomach and he fought back the despair in believing that his mother had not come after all. Once again she had deemed something else more important than her son. Ezra started to turn away when Josiah stepped inside and caught his arm.

"Hold on, son. Maude is here. She ah…she wanted very much to freshen up and rest a bit at the hotel after that long, hot flight."

"Oh." Ezra kept his expression carefully neutral though he felt undeniably relieved that his own mother had thought him important enough to drop her current matrimonial machinations to be with him. How many times had he been that lonely little boy, the unwanted, barely tolerated houseguest in various strangers' homes waiting for the promised visits from Maude that never materialized?

He was a grown man now, fiercely independent. But somehow Ezra felt maddeningly not so far removed from that younger, vulnerable version of himself. He was ashamed that, deep down, it still mattered. He despised himself that the others too knew that it did.

"When will my mother arrive?" Ezra asked, not knowing that his question sounded to Josiah like, "See get when you mondroni come around and walking?"

"What did you say, son?" Josiah's puzzled gray eyes looked down at him and Ezra felt his face flush in frustration. Standish held up his hand in a 'wait a minute' gesture and went to retrieve a pad and pen. When Ezra returned, Josiah waited patiently while he carefully wrote out his question and showed it to Josiah. The big profiler read the note silently. While not perfectly scripted, Ezra's message was still easily understood as his writing skills continued to be less affected by his aphasia. "Four-thirty. She insists that she can take a cab here though I offered to leave the office early to swing by and pick her up. I'm going to head back to the office now before Chris suspects that I've eloped with your mother." Josiah's eyes twinkled and his face assumed an altogether exaggerated, sappy expression.

At that, Ezra laughed and any residual melancholy faded. His deep dimples and gold tooth shone and for that briefest moment, he looked to Josiah exactly as he had that fateful Saturday before a bee attack had turned his world upside down. But then the moment was gone and the silent, tired-looking Ezra stood before him once again.

Just then Vin emerged from the guestroom. He looked questioningly at Josiah having noted Maude's absence. Josiah shook his grizzled head almost imperceptibly. Vin frowned, incorrectly assuming that Maude had not come. Ezra's back was to him so he couldn't gauge how his friend was. All Vin knew was that it wasn't right. She'd given her word she'd come and he doubted if there was any reason sufficient enough as far as Vin was concerned for her to break it. But when Ezra turned to walk back into the living room, he appeared tired, but not disappointed. But of course with Ezra's ability to hide his emotions behind a mask, that didn't necessarily mean anything.

"You okay, Pard?" Vin asked.

"Yes." This time Ezra wasn't quite as clear and Vin looked to Josiah for more information on where Maude was. Josiah quickly filled Vin and then Team Seven's profiler said good-bye and left to return to the office.

When the Texan turned around, he saw a wrung-out looking Ezra sitting on his sofa with his head leaning wearily against the back rest. Vin approached wishing he could do something to restore his friends flagging reserves of strength. Ezra blinked and turned sleepy-looking eyes on Vin. "Go to sleep, Ez," Vin encouraged, a worried look on his face.

Ezra grew annoyed. He knew he needed to rest but had no desire to return to his bed after he had slept all night in it. His irritation though, was for his own weakness, and less at Vin's care and concern. Standish took a deep breath and took up the pad and pen to write Vin a message with the intention of assuring his friend that he was fine.

Vin took the pad and read, 'I am feeling springton fine.' Tanner's lips moved as he tried to puzzle out Ezra's message. Luckily it wasn't that difficult for him to make sense of the note.

Maude Standish bent over her slumbering son, looking down at him with a dispassionate expression that belied her churning emotions. Her sharp eyes took in everything about her son's appearance, missing nothing from the parlor of his skin that had not quite recovered it's normal, healthy-looking glow to the gauntness of his features. The fact that Ezra has not stirred through the ringing of the doorbell, nor had his sixth sense alerted him to her presence standing over him told her just how depleted his strength was.

Maude sighed, feeling enormously relieved. Yes, Ezra had almost died, but with all things considered, judging from his appearance, he was on the road to recovery. Following that initial conversation with Josiah Sanchez, she'd been so deeply afraid of what she would find. Would her only boy still be in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines and fighting for his life in an Intensive Care Unit? Would she have to endure looking at his beautiful features, swollen and disfigured from hives? And what about that clever mind he'd been gifted with? Josiah had said there was brain damage but how severe was it? Would Ezra ever be the same again? She couldn't bear it if he were not.  
Maude cupped her son's face. "Ezra," she called softly.

Ezra's eyes snapped open. For a moment, he looked blearily at her before his green eyes registered a maelstrom of emotions ranging from surprise, delight, relief, and fear at the sight of his mother. Ezra quickly got himself under control, swallowed and stood up. There were so many things he wanted to say, at this moment, but he did not have the ability to customarily express affection to his mother with words wrapped in dry wit.

His mother had caught him in a moment of vulnerability in that fleeting moment between sleep and the waking world, and for once in his life, he didn't know what to do, so he did nothing. He simply looked at Maude and she in turn looked at him. Green eyes locked with similar pools of emerald.

At length, Maude issued a challenge in her lilting Southern drawl. "Well don't just stand there, son. Aren't you going to say something?"

Ezra took a deep breath and said the one thing he'd managed to express more than once without difficulty, "yes." Standish leaned in close and laid a gentle kiss upon his mother's cheek. Ezra looked over and past his mother's shoulder and caught sight of Vin's lean form casually leaning discreetly against the far wall. Their eyes met and Vin stepped forward speaking to Maude.

"Ma'am, you look like you could use a drink. I happen to know that Ezra always keeps his mini-bar well stocked. How 'bout we take a look for something that appeals to you," he suggested.

"That would be fine, Mr. Tanner," Maude smiled tightly. She knew a diversion when she saw one. She went along with her son's friend's obvious attempt to give Ezra a little breathing room.

Ezra gave Vin a look of gratitude than proceeded to slowly make his way down the hall to the bathroom. Meanwhile Maude accompanied Vin to check out the contents of Ezra's mini-bar. After the stylish woman had made her beverage selection, the two of them sat down on the same kitchen bar stools Ezra and Vin had earlier occupied.

Maude wasted no time in piercing Vin with a hard stare. When she spoke she was direct and to the point. "What exactly is the nature of the infirmity afflicting my son?"

"Pardon?" Vin was momentarily taken aback. At that moment, Maude sounded so much like her son. The apple didn't fall far from the tree.

"Maude leaned forward and hissed in a low voice. "I want to know exactly what kind of symptoms of brain damage Ezra has."

Vin fidgeted. The Texan's expressive blue eyes seemed to grow darker and he looked away from Maude. Talking about Ezra's personal business behind his back, in his own home to boot, felt wrong, like a violation of trust. But Ezra had clearly signaled him to run interference for him. What if he had done so for the express purpose of having him explain to Maude the nature of Ezra's aphasia?

Vin had to admit that right now Ezra didn't have the ability to clearly communicate the medical details of his condition to Maude. Hell, Ezra probably didn't really know himself. After all, he'd just gotten out of the hospital yesterday and had not yet even had a session with the speech therapist which would have afforded him an opportunity to gain more information about his condition. Maude was Ezra's momma. She deserved to at least know why Ezra was rather apprehensive around her.

"Maude, the docs say that Ezra has something called, Wernicke's aphasia." Vin scratched his head, while fishing for the correct definition. "That means that even though he can talk using long sentences with decent grammar, what he says sometimes don't make a lick of sense cause he makes up words, or uses words that shouldn't be in the sentence."

Maude's face registered disbelief. "I see. Your Mr. Sanchez was less than forthright. He said only that Ezra had some difficulty speaking, but he made it sound as though it was just a minor, temporary difficulty that he was experiencing."

"Ezra ain't gonna be like that forever. Not if we have anything to say about it." Vin winced inwardly.

"If it's as bad as you say, how on earth is he communicating?"

"He writes. Mostly. Sometimes it's hard to figure out what he's trying to say and other times it's not too bad, " Vin answered calmly.

The depth of Maude's dismay left her reeling - and unable to do anything about it. She hated being afraid and right now, a terrible fear had come upon her and threatened her precious ability to control any situation. That was never a good thing for when Maude Standish was afraid, she tended to mask it with insensitive, hurtful words.

Now was such a time.

"Good God," Maude said bitterly. "What about that _career_ of his in law enforcement? How can he possibly be of any use to Chris Larabee or the rest of his ATF teammates? I warned him this would happen but he refused to listen to me. How can he be of use to anyone if he can't even communicate better than a blubbering baby?"

Vin's mouth dropped open, but before he could issue an angry retort, he felt prickly fingers walk up his spine. His internal alarm had set off a warning and it caused him to look over his shoulder. What he saw made his heart sink.

Ezra was standing there, white-faced and still as a statue. His face was an emotional-less mask that he wore over the wound he was too proud to admit his mother had gouged on his soul.

Vin didn't have to wonder just how much of that Ezra had heard - it was obvious when Ezra whirled on his heels in a slow, deliberate movement.

Maude had the grace to look contrite. Her face flushed and she too rose from her stool. "Ezra, I'm not trying to be cruel. I was just pointing out the obvious -" But Ezra wasn't listening. He held up the back of his hand, walked to the front door and straight out of it. At the same time Vin whirled around angrily.

"Don't say another word," the sharpshooter snapped, his voice cold. Maude reflexively stepped back when she saw the fire in the normally calm, sensitive eyes.

Tanner jumped off the stool and made towards the door. "Wait," Maude called. "Let him go." She laughed nervously. " I've known Ezra all his life. Whenever he'd get his feelings hurt, he'd run off and sulk somewhere like a little puppy."

Only the sheer fact that this was Ezra's mother kept Vin from cursing at the woman. Vin allowed his voice to drip with sarcasm. "You may have known Ezra all his life, but just about anyone knows your son better than you do. He still hasn't got his strength back and he might not be thinkin' straight."  
Tanner didn't wait for an answer but strode quickly out the door.

He let the door slam behind him and then drew up short, confused when he didn't see Ezra. Where was he? There was no sign of the undercover agent. "Ezra!" Vin called, but there was no answer and Ezra did not appear. Vin walked down the steps of Ezra's condo and out to the sidewalk. "Ezra!"  
How the hell could he have gotten away in a matter of seconds?

_Ezra, where are you?_

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes: **In honor of Mag7wrimo, I'm back with a new, 5921-word chapter! My apologies for the delay. For anyone interested, there is a new illustration for this chapter featuring Ezra and Maude with a modern hairstyle. It can be found in my Multi-fandom gallery located at my art and fanfic website under my profile.

**Part Fourteen**

"Ezra! Ezra!"

He was still on the third floor, out of Vin's sight but inconveniently not out of mind as he wished. Ezra Standish sighed and emerged from his shadowed place of concealment ironically, right around the corner from his front door. The Southerner eased himself from the tight, darkened space, inched over to the balcony railing and looked down below.

From his vantage point he could see and hear Vin Tanner calling his name and walking with long, quick strides out into the bright sunshine and down towards the sidewalk that stretched between the two sides of the Bella Piazza Condominium. The Texan appeared to be confused as he stopped, scratched his head, and looked first one way then the other.

Not that Ezra blamed him. The exterior of the Bella Piazza consisted of a series of winding walking paths surrounded by an impressive array of strategically planted, sculpted trees, shrubbery, and flowering plants. To the right there was an attractive area boasting a luxurious swimming pool and outdoor recreational area. Ezra figured that right about now all those amenities and aesthetic botanical displays were nothing more than a visual obstacle course to Vin, making it more difficult for the sharpshooter to know in which direction to look first.

In addition, both main structures of the condominium had several alcoves, some hidden, some in plain view, and all shadowed in the light of the late afternoon. At his first Halloween spent as a resident at Bella Piazza, Ezra had learned that the alcoves were irresistible places for trick-or-treating children and the occasional high-spirited adult to hide in, then jump out and scare unwary victims half out of their wits. Ezra knew exactly which one to slip into hoping that Vin, would assume first that he'd made his escape in the elevator's fortuitously, well-timed arrival.

Standish continued to observe the sharpshooter as the Texan walked farther away. Ezra blew out a breath and leaned his head back against the wall with his eyes closed. _How can he be of use to anyone if he can't even communicate better than a blubbering baby?"_ Indeed. Maude's razor sharp words rang out with humiliating clarity as they played over and over in his head. Powerless to make the words stop, he'd taken control in the only manner he could by removing his person from the presence of the one who had uttered them.

The soul-eating fear that he supposed he'd done a halfway decent job of keeping at bay, was now sweeping through him with mocking impudence. What if he were never able to fully recover from the aphasia? The thought of never again having mastery over his communication skills had terrified him when he was in the hospital, and the terror was no less now that he was out of it. The only thing that was a greater source of torment was the idea of Chris Larabee deciding that he had become useless to Team Seven.

Ezra's thoughts turned to the woman whose claim to having raised him was dubious at best. Standish had not seen his own mother in months, and when he'd lain in the hospital secretly fearing that he was going to die, he had badly wanted to see her. Now she was here, and yet in less than one hour, she'd managed to hone in on his fears, magnify them, and leave him feeling humiliated. Humiliated and scared. _Damn_.

He did not even have the luxury of being able to deflect Maude's cutting words with a witty retort in response to remarks that gouged like barbed wire in tender flesh. It had seemed as though the walls of his own home were closing in on him and suddenly he'd been seized with an urgent, over-whelming need to escape and put distance between himself and his mother.

Ezra made a noise that came perilously close to sounding like an ungentlemanly, derisive snort as he ran a hand through his thick chestnut colored locks. He was acting irrationally and he knew it. He also knew that he desperately needed to calm down and clear his head. What Maude did or didn't say should not matter to him - he knew his mother loved him and he accepted the imperfect nature of her love a long time ago.

The trouble was, it did matter.

His self-esteem had taken a beating of late and the days of being so desperately, wretchedly ill had exacted not only a physical toll on his body, but an emotional one from his mind as well.

Slowly Ezra relaxed as he felt the tension start to drain away. He was just going to have to accept the fact, with a little sanguine grace, that it was going to take him a little longer then one day out of the hospital to restore his equilibrium and regain control over his body and emotions.

As he heard Vin's voice growing fainter as the sharpshooter moved farther away, Ezra hung his head as a wave of guilt washed over him. Tanner was out there looking for him, clearly worried. Any minute now his friend would pull out his cellphone and summon the others to come help look for him like he was some wayward, runaway child. _Can I possibly humiliate myself anymore than I already have?_

Ezra was ashamed. Vin didn't deserve this hassle. None of them did. He wasn't the only one who had been through a terrible ordeal and yet here he was behaving as though he were, and for what? Because Maude had dared to tell him the truth about, among other things, his tenuous position both personally and professionally? His mother, if nothing else, had always been consistent in sharing her deeply-ingrained belief that loyalty was a one-way street. It was far healthier and far more lucrative to be the one demanding loyalty rather than the one giving it.

After his graduation from college, his mother had been appalled that her son had ever given his loyalty to the FBI and she had spared no opportunity to tell him how it was only a matter of time before his foolish decision blew up in his face.

And Maude had been right - at least Ezra thought so at the time when he was embroiled in the nightmarish mess the FBI had become for him. When everything had gone to hell in Atlanta with insinuations of him being on the take, then the ensuing isolation, recriminations and harassment, his mother had showed up with a new rock on her finger and a need to practice her particular brand of mothering. Unfortunately for him, Maude's mothering consisted of advice dispensed in the form of the oft articulated opinion, 'I told you so, Ezra'.

Oh, Ezra knew that intellectually, his mother understood that the painful experience with the FBI had left him bruised, disillusioned, and with his back up against the wall with no way out. But to Maude, the entire affair was simply a hard, but expedient validation of her belief that Ezra would one day rue the day when he had apparently lost his mind and turned his back on his God given gifts to pursue a career in law enforcement.

There had been a certain amount of delight and glibness in Maude's observations of his situation, but Ezra had minimized the hurt for he understood his mother all too well. He knew that his mother's reaction sprang from the hope that he would leave Atlanta and finally join her in perfecting the art of the con and not actually from any joy in seeing him disillusioned and hurting.

Much to Maude's horror, though, the experience had not resulted in him resigning from the FBI in order to accompany her and her new fiancé on a cruise around the Greek islands. Instead, Ezra had packed his bags, followed a grim man dressed in black to Denver, and joined the ATF.

He had never looked back, not even when he faced a rocky start that had him fortifying his emotional defenses almost immediately despite the fact that he'd been hand-picked by Chris Larabee to join his team. Despite his early difficulties, he had not quit and Ezra had come to appreciate that Larabee had set the bar high for all of them. Each man depended on the other to both pull their own weight and watch each other's backs. At one time or another they had all had to share the work of one when one of their number had been laid up due to injury or illness.

That was expected. This current situation was, however, a horse of a different color. The way Ezra saw it, he had no right to make his teammates worry one more day over him and yet he had thoughtlessly stormed out of his home without either epi-pen or medical alert bracelet. What did that make him then when just a day ago he had vowed to do everything in his power to recover and secure his future with the team?

Ezra sighed, not really ready to reveal himself, but knowing he had to. He peered over the railing again. To Ezra's dismay, the Texan's hand was indeed reaching for his cellphone, which he wore hooked to his belt in a leather case. _No!_ Adrenalin surged through Ezra's body. Standish focused all his concentration on enunciating Vin's name. "Vin!" he called, but the Texan apparently did not hear him. Vin's hand was fumbling with the phone, trying to remove it from the case.

Frustrated, Ezra moved to the elevator and pushed the button. The car was fortuitously there and he got in and rode it down. When the doors opened he stepped out and started walking rapidly towards the sidewalk located between the two buildings where he'd last seen Vin. Looking towards his left he saw his friend already at the end, with his back towards him. The sharpshooter was standing still having pulled his cellphone out and was opening it. Within seconds Vin would press one of the numbers he had programmed into speed dial - most likely Chris'. Vin would tell Chris all about how Maude had broken him down and how he'd stormed out of his home, sans medicine and bracelet. Then his teammates would look at him in disgust, or worse yet, pity. Ezra just couldn't bear that. _No suh._ The vestiges of his tattered pride would not allow that.

One long finger from the sharpshooter's hand was already in a downward motion, ready to press the button. Without thinking, Ezra's rapid walk morphed into a slow jog.

"Vin, don't!" This time the short command rang out clear, like a straight shot fired from one of Vin's prized sniper rifles. Vin turned around with a relieved look on his face. Ezra kept pushing his body in the slow jog.

Unfortunately for Ezra, the act of increased physical exertion was one bad decision crowning another.

It was only a short distance to Vin, yet suddenly Ezra felt as though he was coming in from running a marathon for which he'd forgotten to train. He was breathing hard now and his limbs felt incredibly heavy. He staggered, caught himself before he sprawled out on the ground in an undignified heap.

The relieved expression on the Texan's face vanished. Tanner moved to close the gap between them. Vin was close, so very close, but when Ezra finally reached him he was spent, weary beyond belief, and his vision was darkening ominously. _Why are the stars coming out in the middle of the day?_ Standish fought to keep the ground from rushing up to meet him as at the same time, he felt Tanner grab him with both arms. Vin's grip felt firm and sure and the other man's wiry strength stopped Ezra from sinking to his knees down to the hard pavement.

"Oh no you don't! Vin barked in alarm. "Just hang on and it will pass," he added, his voice sounding somehow much calmer.

So they stood there in the open with Ezra feeling quite like an old man, held up only by his friend's strength. The roaring in his ears died down and gradually he found himself looking slightly cross-eyed at the Texan's too close face.

Vin still looked very concerned but his expression contained just the hint of something else. Ezra frowned. Tanner's lips were curved up slightly as if he were secretly amused. They were no doubt, quite a sight. _Oh good Lawd._ He was about to fall down on his face in the open, but all Ezra could think of was how it must look to his neighbors with him standing on the sidewalk in the middle of his subdivision, with a long-haired man holding him in his arms. To be sure, tongues would wag, he thought and nearly groaned aloud.

He half-expected Vin to pepper him with pissed-off sounding questions about just where he'd disappeared to and how could he be so stupid and willful as to run out without his epi-pen and alert bracelet. But Vin did nothing of the sort.

Ezra had always thought that the quiet Texan's quality of friendship was one of the finest things about him. It was like a rare gift of gold, coveted by many and given away to few. Indeed, Vin knew how to be friend and right now, Ezra was a friend in need. Standish needed assistance just to stay on his feet. No doubt Tanner would have questions for him later, but not now, not in the middle of the sidewalk where it was clear that there was no way he could even summon the strength to return to his abode unaided.

Fortunately, Vin's encouraging words proved true. Instead of passing out, the dizziness lessened until it finally left him, leaving Ezra merely with depleted strength and limbs trembling with exhaustion. As much as he hated the public spectacle he believed he was making, he was grateful for Vin's arms that had loosened their iron-clad hold on his own, but did not entirely release him.

Ezra tiredly straightened up in an attempt to regain some of his dignity.  
Vin shifted his hold and placed one arm about Ezra's waist and with the other hand he reached over and casually draped Ezra's arm across his shoulders. "Let's go, pard," Vin said encouragingly.

Gamely, Ezra launched into an obligatory protest along the lines of, 'I'm all right. Please forgive me for allowing my mother's words to provoke such an ill-advised and purely self-indulgent response. I assure you, it won't happen again.'

"Uh huh," Vin merely grunted. One corner of the sharpshooter's mouth quirked up to an even higher angle. Tanner had missed a great deal of what Ezra had said throughout the mix of nonsensical and inappropriate word placement, but he was pretty sure that somewhere in Ezra's confused-sounding speech was an Standish-style apology which, before the aphasia, Vin reckoned he might not have understood anyway.

Ezra looked at Vin with a silent, "Did you understand me?" expression, but Tanner chose to ignore the look. Instead he said, "Ezra, we'll go slow. You can make it, right?"

Ezra pursed his lips together and nodded his head. Of course he could and if he had to feign like he'd just had a few too many to keep the neighbors from getting too curious about why he had his arms flung around another man, he could do that too.

Together, the two men slowly made their way back to Ezra's condo, with Ezra gradually leaning more on Vin as his fatigue seemed to grow exponentially the closer they got. Standish was disgusted with himself. He could not believe how the simple act of running had tired him out so much. He thought the walk he had taken from the front of the hospital out to Vin's jeep in the parking lot had been long and exhausting, but this was much worse. The walk that once would have required no effort at all now demanded all of his concentration just for him to keep putting one foot in front of the other. No longer caring about attracting anyone's attention, he longed to lie down on the pavement and go to sleep.

Instead, Ezra kept his head down and trudged on.

"For heaven's sake, Ezra, sit down and get off your feet. " Maude's normally dulcet Southern drawl sounded a bit too forced, just a tad this side of shaky. Vin's sharp eye observed a changed attitude in Maude at seeing how her son required assistance to return home.

Vin deposited Ezra on the couch and watched while Standish toed off his shoes, wearily put his feet up, and lay back with a blissful sigh. Maude made a soft clucking sound with her tongue and then took up a light blanket and placed it over him. "Ezra, are you all right?" Maude asked.

Ezra peered wearily up at Maude. "I'm fine," was all he would say. No way in hell was he going to add that all he had needed was a moment to pull his self-esteem together after she had ripped it to shreds.

"Where'd you get to, Ez? I didn't see you anywhere and I was worried." Vin asked as a delayed reaction took hold of him. Tanner was shaken. The sight of Ezra breathing hard, weak and pale faced was all too like the ones he remembered in the hospital when he could only sit helplessly at Ezra's bedside while the undercover agent suffered unending agony.

"Ezra, what were you thinking of, running out of here like that?" Maude interrupted to add her two-cents. Ezra just shrugged.

Vin looked pointedly at Ezra's mother but for the first time he noticed that her eyes looked slightly red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying.

The hardness around Vin's heart towards the woman softened a bit. If Maude was capable of realizing how her words had hurt her son and was grieved, then maybe she wasn't such a bad mother after all. Vin sighed inwardly. It wasn't for him to harbor ill feelings for the woman and he wasn't the judgmental type by nature. It was plain enough that Ezra loved his mother and that his mother loved him in return. He didn't have to understand it. Vin was beginning to think that maybe he should just excuse himself and leave the two of them alone to work things out in their own fashion.

But that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Ezra's heavy-lidded eyes started to droop. Vin watched as the lids slowly raised and lowered. The amount of jade visible decreased until there was no more showing. Ezra's breathing evened out and his chest rose slowly up and down as the Southerner fell into a deep sleep.

Ezra had been asleep not more than ten minutes when the silence was suddenly interrupted by the ringing of Ezra's kitchen telephone.

Ezra had two phone lines. The one in his bedroom belonged to the ATF and was reserved for his use as one of his undercover personas. His regular line was installed in his kitchen. Vin leaped up in one fluid motion, anxious to pick up the phone before the ringing woke Ezra up. Tanner got to it at the end of the second ring. "Standish residence," he answered in a low voice.

"Hey Vin. How are you?" Vin heard Nathan's warm baritone voice. That the medic would call to check up on Ezra was no surprise, but now Vin had to not only answer without airing Ezra's private business, but do so while Maude was in earshot.

"Me? I'm doin' fine." Vin held the receiver up while he surreptitiously looked first, over at the sleeping Ezra and then at Maude, who was sitting in one of the high-backed arm chairs. Maude's silvery blond hair was bent over one of Ezra's coffee table books and she appeared to be absorbed in it, but Vin wasn't fooled. She was listening all right.

Nathan must have heard something alerting in Vin's voice for the medic immediately asked, "What's wrong? Is Ezra all right?"

Vin inwardly cursed. He didn't have Ezra's gift for subterfuge. He was about as transparent as cellophane and Tanner knew it. "Yeah, he's fine. Just got himself wore out."

"Wore out?" Nathan didn't sound pleased. "What does that hard headed man not understand about the word, 'rest'?"

"He's resting now," Vin stated calmly. Now he knew for sure he didn't want to get into the day's events with the medic. Nathan was as conscientious a medic as they come, but sometimes he took things to the extreme and leaned towards over-bearing when trying to get the other head-strong men to comply with doctor's orders. Vin trusted Nathan, but at the end of the day, Ezra didn't need any more additional stress.

"I'm coming over."

"It's your gas you'd be wastin'. Nathan, I'm telling you, Ezra's asleep and I doubt it if he's gonna crack an eyelid open any time soon."

"Are you gonna tell me what happened? Is it Ms. Standish? She vexin' Ezra?" Nathan pressed.

Maude gave up all pretense of not listening when she put the book down and stared straight at Vin. Tanner moved out of Maude's line of sight. "Something like that," he replied discreetly.

"Is he okay?"

Something about the well-meaning question caused Vin to snap. "Yeah, when he can make sense again when he talks, he'll be okay,. When he doesn't have to worry about dropping dead from an insect , he'll be just peachy," Vin continued, then immediately regretted the outburst. "Ah shit, Nate, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that." He raised his voice and looked in Maude's direction. "Trust me, Ezra's fine. Come by tomorrow for lunch if you want."

"I'll do that," There was no rancor beneath Nathan's succinct capitulation. Implicit in the medic's words was an acceptance of Vin's apology.

Vin hung up the phone, already wishing he had somewhere else to be and something else to do. But he didn't so he returned to his seat in the living room while Maude resumed her mindless leafing through of printed pages filled with brilliant color photos. She'd chosen a different book this time.

The Texan and the grifter sat quietly in Ezra's living room. Vin, who liked his silence the way Ezra liked his words, felt an awkward quiet descend and fill the space between them. Only the sound of Ezra's occasional, light snoring disturbed the silence.

Vin nearly jumped when Maude snapped closed the book with a sudden, heavy thud. "Despite what it seems, Mr. Tanner, I love my son. True, we've never seen eye to eye on his involvement in law enforcement, but I am very sorry that I upset him so," Maude finally said.

Vin aimed a level gaze at Maude and shrugged. "Ain't me you need to say them words to. Whether you like it or not, Ezra's job and his ability to do it better than anyone I know, is important to him. What he does makes a difference in people's lives. That's what he does. That's who he is. He don't need you to come here and run him down when he's already lyin' in the road bleedin'."

Maude was looking intently at her sleeping son. Had she even heard him? Vin wondered. Then she turned her gaze from Ezra to Vin, studying him, sizing him up. There was a subtle shift to the green eyes that stared at him and Vin unconsciously braced himself for a furious retort.

An eyebrow arched. Painted lips curved upwards slightly. "Why, that doesn't sound anything like an obfuscation," Maude said mildly.

"What?" confounded, Vin wondered why the hell everyone with Standish blood running through their veins could not speak plainly.

"I believe you," Maude clarified. "In fact, I think you are a very good friend to my son, Vin Tanner."

Vin breathed a covert sigh of relief as Maude seemed to take the rebuke well. "I try, Ma'am". Vin grinned. "He .hasn't always made that easy."

Just like that, the air that had been made stiff, with a thick and awkward silence between them, now seemed relaxed and natural. "Lordy, we Standish's are a complicated lot, aren't we?" Maude smiled and smoothed a nervous hand over perfectly coifed, fine hair and Vin in that motion, caught a memory of his own momma doing the very same thing. Vin smiled wistfully, a small smile, a private smile just for him. That memory was like the sun shining through the haze of a cloudy day.

The ringing phone interrupted Chris Larabee as he was reviewing JD Dunne's latest request for a surveillance equipment upgrade. "Larabee," he spoke into the receiver.

"Agent Larabee." Chris heard the familiar voice of Laura Chandler, Judge Orrin Travis's secretary on the other end. "Judge Travis would like to see you in his office anytime before you leave to go home today."

Chris glanced at the clock. There was at the minimum, two more hours to go before it could be legitimately considered time to knock off. He concluded that he might as well go and see what his boss wanted right now and get the impromptu summons over with. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

Chris ended the call, got up and reached for his discarded jacket that he had divested himself of earlier in the day. He walked out of his office and surveyed the scene in the bullpen. Buck was standing behind JD's desk, looking over his shoulder while the young man was explaining something on the monitor. There was a lull in the conversation and Buck suddenly looked up and Chris caught his eye. Larabee made a subtle gesture with his head and in response, Buck clapped JD on the shoulder, "'xcuse me, the Boss is calling. Better see what he wants."

Buck walked up to Chris. "Trouble?" he asked in a low voice.

"Don't know. I'm going over to see the Judge but I don't know for what."

Buck's mustache twitched upwards over in a very Buck-like, devilish grin. "No worries, Chris, I'll be sure to keep everybody in line while you're gone."

Chris cast a dubious expression Buck's way. "Right," he drawled.

Chris paused just outside the heavy oak door with the impressive brass plate with the words, "Judge Orrin Travis, Assistant Director, Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms, Tobacco and Explosives, Denver Field Office " engraved on it.  
Why was he hesitating rather than going straight in as he was accustomed to doing? He shrugged. Perhaps he'd been hanging out with Vin too much lately for he was beginning to get one of those itchy feelings the Texan occasionally got whenever he sensed trouble afoot.

Five minutes and a casual exchange of pleasantries later he was no longer wondering.

"You can't be serious." Chris felt his jaw tightening after he read the contents of the letter he held in his hand. He was sitting in one of the fancy red leather winged-back chairs situated in front of Orrin Travis' desk; Larabee stared, willing the older man to turn the granite profile with the once chiseled features now blunted with age his way so he could look into the hazel-brown eyes.

"This is serious, but at least Agent Standish must know this is coming." Orrin Travis said matter-of-factly. Travis leaned back in his executive leather chair, leveled a steady gaze at Larabee and waited for his response.

The Assistant Director was a man whose vast experiences with the spectrum of humankind, from best to worst, had molded him into a conservative, no-nonsense, law and order man. His gruff persona intimidated most, but his reputation was that of being a tough but fair man. Orrin Travis didn't suffer fools willingly, nor did he tolerate anything less than best efforts from the men and woman who worked for him. The highest standards he reserved for Chris Larabee and the men of Team Seven.

Like Chris, Orrin Travis knew the pain caused by the unbearable loss of an only son, brutally murdered. Unlike Larabee though, Orrin Travis had not lost his entire family. He still had a loving wife, a devoted daughter-in-law in Mary Travis, and in her son, Billy a grandson who, in his grandfather's eyes, could do no wrong. Still, he wasn't so old, wasn't so hardened that he had not come to despise some aspects of his job. He found the task at hand particularly distasteful for he knew the wheels set in motion could very well result in the loss of Team Seven's undercover agent.

The irony was that aside from Chris Larabee, few in the ATF would have guessed that Orrin's concern for Ezra Standish ran deeper then just the uncertain future of his top undercover agent. Orrin held all of the members of Team Seven in high regard, not just as superb agents, but as men. As such, he genuinely cared for each of them. Indeed, Judge Travis was experiencing an almost paternal instinct to protect Ezra while the Southerner fought to regain his health. Unfortunately, those instincts were at war with the part of his job that required him to force compliance with the ATF's stringent rules regarding fitness for field duty in a purely professional, detached manner.

Travis said nothing more while Larabee seethed quietly on the inside. No, he'd not directly spoken to Ezra about what was coming. He had put off such a discussion and told himself it was for Ezra's sake. _Had it really been?_ a nagging voice challenged. Maybe he was putting it off because he was covering his own bone-deep reluctance to bring that kind of news to Ezra. Maybe he was just too much of a coward and wanted to avoid seeing the look of betrayal he feared he see in Ezra's eyes. It was his duty to be the one to tell Ezra and he hadn't so much as warned the man. In some way Chris felt that he had betrayed Ezra's hard-won trust. He'd worked so hard to break down Ezra's protective walls and drag the younger, reticent man into the folds. He hated the thought of seeing those walls resurrected.

Chris Larabee was angry at himself and he was angry at the haste in which Ezra was being forced to face a medical board. Nevertheless, when he answered it was with a controlled even voice. "This is bullshit and you know it, _Sir._ Ezra just got out of the hospital yesterday and the medical board's wasted no time in demanding he prove his fitness for field duty in less than two weeks? You are going to demand that this be delayed, right?"

Travis's voice was full of regret when he spoke. "As much as I don't agree with it, the letter clearly explains that it is the nature of Ezra's injury - the severe allergy to bee venom that is driving the administrative decision to hold a medical board sooner rather than later."

Larabee's disbelief turned into frustration at hearing that. According to the letter, Ezra was to be evaluated for both his aphasia and his allergy and he'd not even had an opportunity yet to undergo any speech therapy. Ezra was due back in the office Monday after he'd had a few days off to recuperate at home. It was understood that he would be on desk duty for a period of time just as any agent would be after incurring an injury or illness. In the meantime, business would go on as usual until such time as an undercover agent was required. Travis had indicated that the undercover agent from Team Three would fill in for Ezra while the Southerner worked his ass off in speech therapy.

Now on Ezra's first day back at the office Chris would be forced to notify him that in two weeks he'd either need to have obtained a miracle healing or possibly lose his job as an undercover agent. Larabee's tight hold over his frustration slipped and he looked at Travis with a cold, calculating eye. "You never were too thrilled when I brought Ezra into the team under that cloud of suspicion in Atlanta. You sure it's not convenient for you that the board seems to be considering Ezra's condition cut and dried so as to darn near pre-determine the decision to get rid of him?"

Travis's back stiffened and the sharp hazel-brown eyes narrowed in anger and hurt too. "You forget yourself, Larabee," he said, his voice gruff with censure. "I'm aware that you are stressed - both personally and professionally, so I'll overlook that baseless, not to mention highly offensive insinuation."

Something in Larabee's eyes shifted and he recognized Judge Travis' oblique reference to the loss of his beloved dog, Devil. Chris blinked. He'd let his emotions get the best of him in a distinctly uncharacteristic way and he'd unconsciously lashed out of his boss with a heinous accusation.  
"You're right. That was not only uncalled for, but untrue. For the record, I don't think that."

Travis cleared his throat. "Forget it. See to it that Agent Standish receives the forms and letter of notification," he said in a dismissive tone.

The meeting was over and Chris Larabee stalked away holding a folder filled with papers he wished he could toss into the nearest incinerator.

Buck Wilmington watched as Chris Larabee, a vision of black cloth and cold fury, storm back to his office without a word to anyone.

Josiah, Nathan, JD and Buck all exchanged glances. "There's a disturbance in the force," JD observed. His quip was light, but his dark eyes in his youthful face were serious.

"Brother Chris doesn't look very happy," Josiah agreed.

"Well, one of us ought to go in there and see to him," Nathan said. The medic turned to Buck. "I nominate you. He needs his buddy."

"Vin ain't here," Buck drawled in exaggeration.

JD couldn't help himself. He shook his head and laughed. "You're his oldest buddy."

"All right. All right. I'll sacrifice myself on the alter of Chris' wrath and find out what the hell has got him looking like he wants to go and kick some ass."

Wilmington strode over to Chris' office, knocked once then without waiting for a response, came in and poured himself into the leather couch across from Larabee's desk. Buck crossed one lanky limb over the other and studied his oldest friend, taking stock.

Larabee looked up from whatever he'd been reviewing. "What?" he demanded.

"What does the Judge have for us today that's got you stirred up?" Buck asked casually.

Chris inhaled deeply before he spoke. He'd let his runaway mouth make an ass out of himself already today and once was enough. "They're giving Ezra two lousy weeks before he has to go before a medical board."

Buck's mouth dropped open. "Two weeks? How the hell is Ezra going to be ready in two weeks? This is bullshit."

"That's what I said."

Buck was impressed. "You said that to the Judge?"

"Yup. And something else I had no cause to say," Chris replied.

"You gonna tell me what it is you said?"

"No." The finality in that reply was unmistaken and Buck wisely moved on.

All serious now, Buck softly asked, "What are you going to do?"

"There's nothing I can do but give Ezra this letter and hope Ezra doesn't hate my guts."

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Greetings to any past readers still interested in Ezra's journey and welcome to any new ones. Yes, the tale continues. It's long in the telling, but hey, with me you ain't gettin' 8-page updates! Pull up a chair, put your feet up and check out the rest of the tale! : )

Feedback appreciated.

Six o'clock came and while Ezra remained asleep on the couch, Maude and Vin shared the living room and exchanged infrequent tidbits of conversation. For the most part though they stayed out of each other's way, as if honoring an unspoken wish to not disturb the delicate balance that had been struck between the Southern Belle's ostentatious personality and the sharpshooter's quiet, low-key one.

After a time Vin found himself, once again, fighting a growing sense of restlessness. The Texan was beginning to think that his presence in Ezra's home would, sooner or later, turn into something like a fifth wheel on a sports car. As a result and unbeknownst to Maude, Vin made up his mind to return to his own home, thus giving mother and son precious time to be alone together - even if both of them secretly dreaded that very thing.

Vin rubbed the back of his neck. Loving and accepting someone else sure wasn't the same thing as feeling safe enough to trust them with one's emotions and vulnerabilities. Vin knew that Ezra tended to erect walls to protect himself and his instincts were telling him that Maude did the same. As long as he was there playing referee, Ezra and Maude would most likely interact with each other only wearing their most entrenched masks. The two of them badly needed privacy in order to have any chance of reaching an honest level of communication, for good or ill.

His mind made up, Vin rose from his chair and offered to reheat for Maude some of the delicious soup he had managed to make for Ezra's lunch earlier.  
Maude graciously accepted and when it was ready, Vin set out a bowl, napkin, spoon, cup, and beverages at the dinner table.

Ezra's mother came to the table but rather than sit down she stood inspecting the solitary setting with a critical eye. Maude arched one elegantly-groomed eyebrow over Vin's way. "Are you not eating, Mr. Tanner? Surely a gentlemen such as yourself wouldn't suffer a lady to eat this," she paused ever so slightly, "gracious repast all by her lonesome, would you?"

_I ain't no gentleman,_ Vin thought, but that was far from true. The sharpshooter was a Tanner and he carried that name proudly as his sole inheritance. When it came down to it, Vin who had become an orphan at the tender age of five, had taken his mother's teachings to heart and never let them go. One of the things his mother had taught him included chivalry to women. Ezra's mother expected dinner time companionship and Vin wasn't about to show poor manners by making her eat alone.

Maude was also looking at Vin with bright green eyes that sparkled like jewels and a winsome smile that could beguile a dead man, but Vin wasn't fooled. Something else lurked beneath the charm and beauty of that self-assured persona. The ever-perceptive Vin detected a tad of desperation that spoke of a need the proud woman had to not be alone with nothing but her conflicting thoughts and emotions as dinner companions. He didn't have to imagine that Maude Standish had been on her own emotional roller coaster ever since Josiah had called her and told her about how ill her son was at that time.

"I reckon I could stay and share some more of that soup," Vin answered with a brief, lopsided grin. His capitulation complete, Vin set another place and helped himself to a serving.

When they had both finished Vin not only cleared the table, but washed and dried the dishes by hand. The Texan had no dishwasher in his rundown apartment in the depressed town of Purgorito, but Ezra had a fancy one that had more buttons and lights on it than an airline cockpit. Vin snorted softly. Sometimes the old fashioned way was the simplest, quickest way to do something.

When the dishes were done, Vin approached Maude who had once more retreated to Ezra's tastefully appointed living room. He cleared his throat. "Uh, Ms. Standish, I'm going back home now. You really don't need me here and I think the two of you could benefit from some time to yourselves."

Much to Vin's surprise, Maude agreed. She surprised him then by thanking him with most gracious sounding words for everything he'd done for her and for Ezra, but Vin shrugged off her words feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Something about Maude's little speech sounded suspiciously as though she was about to offer him money as payment. That was Maude Standish for you. Two steps forward and one step back. "He's my friend," Vin replied simply. He started walking towards the door. "You have our numbers. If you need anything before tomorrow, all you have to do is call."

"You can stake your last ten dollars on that," Maude assured.

Before departing Ezra's home Vin glanced over at the couch to see how his friend fared. Finding Ezra still very much sound asleep and by all appearances dead to the world, Vin left him in Maude's care.

He prayed all the way home that he wasn't making a huge mistake.

Over the next two days, six of the seven members of Team Seven resumed somewhat of a normal work schedule while Ezra remained at home convalescing. During that time the recovering man found himself negotiating the nuances of his relationship with Maude, much like a cautious man walking through a minefield.

Wednesday evening Ezra had awakened to find Vin gone and his mother pacing around his living room like a caged animal looking for a way of escape. The pacing had stopped only when Maude looked his way and found him silently studying her from where he lay on the couch. She'd looked back at him and her face had assumed a peculiar expression. Ezra wondered what odd thought of hers had inspired the look.

Then Ezra had had an odd thought of his own. It occurred to him that Maude looked as though she was standing there trying to reconcile some long ago image of him as a little boy with that of the grown man she saw before her now. How deeply in the recesses of her mind did she have to delve in order to conjure up that phantom memory? Did she keep it close and dust the cobwebs from it every now and then just to reassure herself that at one time she had actually been the mother of a trusting boy? Ezra had thought uncharitably.

However, the bitter thoughts fled when Maude had smiled and spoken to him then with a frankness that he had found both rare and wholly refreshing.

After the initial awkwardness he'd keenly felt at being forced to reveal the full extent of his communications difficulties had passed, Ezra and Maude had managed to discover a new facet to their relationship. Of all the people Ezra had attempted to communicate with after his illness, his mother had been the one who turned out to have the easiest time understanding exactly what it was he was trying to say.

Her ability was almost uncanny and Ezra had, with an eye only half-jaundiced, attributed that skill to the randomness of genetic connection. Why on earth he should, other than by an accident of birth, share an intuitive communication ability with Maude Standish, was a concept he could not easily explain nor fully believe in. He'd have better luck trying to bottle a moonbeam than truly understanding this aspect of their mother and son relationship.

They talked, then later Maude talked and Ezra listened for Ezra found the constant high level of concentration necessary to communicate, exhausting to maintain. Unfortunately, of the precious things Ezra most longed to hear concerning his father, Maude spoke little.

Ezra had learned to live with only the vaguest of memories of the man who was responsible for half of his genetic makeup. The Southerner had barely been four years old at the time Peyton Standish had lost his life in a violent mugging as he'd left a Las Vegas casino on a night where everything he'd touched had seemingly turned to gold. The smell of his father's fine aftershave, his elegant hands, and the strong arms that often ruffled his hair, held him, or tossed him high in the air above a smiling face, had left their imprints upon his conscious mind like soft, lingering kisses.

Ezra retained fragments of other early memories as well. He had a sense of how his mother had been when his father had been alive, but what his mind remembered, confused him. If he tried hard he could recall images of Maude as a woman gaily humming and whose beauty was attributed more to her long, flowing, golden tresses and infectious laugh more than to the expensive makeup she wore painted on to perfection.

Despite Maude's continued reticence to speak about his father, Ezra had treasured every moment he spent with his mother as she freely regaled him with embellished tales of high-stakes casino games and of rubbing elbows with wealthy thrill-seekers, and the latest returns on her more lucrative 'investments'.

Ezra realized he owed this time partly to Vin and he made a mental note to himself to show his friend how much he had appreciated his thoughtfulness - in everything.

When there was a natural lull in the conversation, Ezra had taken the time to power up his computer and start doing his own research into aphasia. The undercover agent firmly believed that knowledge was power and Ezra was determined to learn everything and anything about his condition. He would be as methodical and thorough in reading through the abundance of information on the net as he was when researching a part for an undercover assignment.

What he read alternated between terrifying and challenging him. The more he read about the various types of aphasia and the symptoms each presented, the more his fighting spirit was roused. However, the oft repeated fact that there was neither a standard treatment, nor guaranteed cure for aphasia stirred up annoying fearful feelings which he deeply did not want to have to deal with. After an hour or so of research, Ezra had begun to feel a creeping anxiety coming upon him so he wisely ended his investigation and got up. He'd taken a deep breath and thought over all that he'd read.

He didn't need a complete cure, he conceded. What he needed was enough therapy and progress to get a firm enough handle sufficient enough to be able to continue to do the job he loved.

As for the matter of his severe allergy…Ezra sighed and decided to tackle the issue another day. The Southerner forced himself to stop absently fingering the bandage on his neck which covered the wound Nathan had inflicted in order to save him from asphyxiation.

Later in the evening, Maude had ordered in a small meal for Ezra from his favorite Chinese delivery restaurant. He'd been touched by his mother's care, and he'd done his best to eat most of it on an appetite that was still significantly diminished. Afterwards, their conversation had ebbed and flowed for hours until Ezra, content, but still not fully recovered in strength, found himself dozing off on the couch before falling soundly asleep again.

When Maude had tried to roust him from the couch and into his proper bed, Ezra had simply grumbled at her and buried himself deeper into the fine leather. She'd gotten the message loud and clear: Ezra was out for the night's duration. Unbeknownst to the sleeping Ezra, Maude had covered him with the neatly folded up blanket all the while muttering under her breath about "foolish children not appreciating a good bed when they had one."

There in the late night quietness of the place her son called home, Maude Standish finally let down the constant guard she'd maintained over her reactions and over her emotions since Ezra had stormed out of his home upset. Her proud shoulders had slumped and for a moment, she had stood still with her face buried in her hands.

When the antique grandfather clock had softly chimed, announcing the lateness of the hour, Maude had straightened her back and pulled her hands came away from her face to reveal a shrewd, calculating expression. Her mind had gone into overdrive then with thinking, scheming, and planning for her baby boy's future which so clearly did not include continuing on with the ATF.

After a time, Maude smiled.

_Thursday Morning_

The customary 0900 team briefing was about to commence in Team Seven's conference when Vin Tanner showed up unexpectedly. The sharpshooter slid into the vacant seat across from the one individual who was not a member of the team. Tanner spared a glance and a brief nod of grudging acknowledgement at the man who was not a stranger, yet not a friend either.

Robert Norton nodded his head somberly in return. A red-haired man with a spattering of light freckles, Norton was an older, experienced undercover agent on loan from Team Three. Everyone there was a professional and as such, they treated the situation as the necessity that it was and regarded him with all due professional courtesy. That, however did not mean that Norton was not acutely aware that that even by the most objective standard, he did not have nearly the amount of innate talent for undercover work that the younger, Ezra Standish had.

Chris looked questioningly at Vin. It was understood that Vin would be staying at Ezra's place, at least until Friday. What was he doing attending a Thursday morning briefing?

_Later._ Vin's expression silently answered Chris' equally silent inquiry.

Larabee proceeded with the briefing. "For those of you who don't know him, this is Robert Norton from Team Three. While Ezra's recuperating, Norton will be filling in should the need arise."

The others looked at each other, noting the subtle stress their black-clad leader placed on the word, 'recuperating'. Buck looked at JD, Josiah, and Nathan . Wilmington's eyes twinkled and his debonair mustache twitched. However, the twinkle in the ladies man's eyes dimmed somewhat when he exchanged glances with Nathan. Buck frowned when the dark-skinned medic averted his eyes rather than join him in affirming the belief that Ezra _would_ fully recover and resume his place with them.

Chris continued. "We don't have any major cases at the moment that require an undercover agent's unique skills, but as you know, that can change at any moment. I wanted to take a moment to formally introduce him." Chris turned hard, inscrutable eyes on Norton. "If you don't have anything you'd like to say, then you are free to go. And thank you."

Norton cleared his throat and looked around at the faces of his fellow ATF agents. "Thank you, Agent Larabee. I appreciate what a difficult time this is for you all with Agent Standish being…uh, sidelined. I'll do my best to fill his considerable shoes until he comes back."

Buck responded. "No disrespect you to, Robert - your solid reputation precedes you, but we're all looking forward to Ezra's speedy return, right, Nathan?" Buck's tone was congenial and only those who knew him well would detect the hint of steel beneath the friendly words.

Nathan looked tired. "Of course, Buck."

Norton stood up. "If you need me, you know where to find me," he said. With that, Norton departed.

For the rest of the meeting Chris touched on a variety of topics of concern for the team; Buck's upcoming explosives expert seminar, a case for which Josiah Sanchez had been asked to assist the local police in developing a profile, and the status of JD Dunne's latest request for a surveillance equipment upgrade. The last subject Chris introduced garnered a reaction from Josiah that had the older man sitting up straight and looking at Larabee with piercing, gray eyes.

"I received an email this morning from Andrew Vita in the federal prosecutor's office," Larabee began. "The defense won a speedy trial motion and now the Heathen's trial is scheduled to begin next week."

"Next week?" Josiah's voice rumbled. "Pardon my French, but just how in the hell is Ezra supposed to testify?"

"The best way he can," Larabee growled back, clearly not happy. No one else but Buck knew that on Monday morning he'd be forced to deliver the paperwork for Ezra's medical board. Now he was going to have to subject him to the additional stress of either successfully testifying, or allowing months of hard, undercover work to go to waste and a dangerous, hardened group of criminals potentially walk free.

JD looked frustrated. "How did the Judge grant the prosecutor a continuance and then turn around and grant the defense a speedy trial motion?" he protested vigorously.

"He don't make the law, JD," Vin answered quietly.

Buck shook his head in disbelief. "This ain't right, Chris. I know it, you know it. Those medical board papers he's gonna -"

"Buck," Chris' voice interrupted in warning.

JD looked from the man whom he regarded as his self-appointed big brother and back to Chris, his boss whom he deeply respected. Then he looked at Josiah and noted the puzzled look on his face. Nathan looked strangely resigned. "What? What's going on, Buck?"

Dark storm clouds were gathering on Larabee's face. This was never a good sign. He looked pissed as all hell - annoyed at the challenge; angry that he couldn't protect one of his own from getting shafted. "It's none of your business," the Team Seven leader ground out.

The air grew tense.

"Somehow I doubt that's entirely true, Chris," Josiah said slowly. "If there's a figurative bullet out there with Ezra's name on it, then it would better serve our brother if we knew about it and were ready to assist him through it."

"There's nothing I can do about it," Chris ground out. "The subject is closed. Is that clear, Bucklin?" Chris added, looking pointedly at his oldest friend.

Buck held himself rigid until slowly, he let the tension ease from his body. "Yeah, Pard, we're clear."

"No."

Chris' head swiveled away from Buck towards the new speaker with almost comical, breakneck speed. "What?"

"No," Nathan Jackson repeated, his voice gaining in strength and conviction, not to mention disbelief and fury after having put two and two together. "Ezra's going to come back to work on Monday and you're going to hit him up with his notification of a medical review board on his first day back. That's it, isn't it?"

The lethal Larabee glare was out in full force, yet Nathan did not flinch.

There was tension-filled silence until Chris Larabee let out a long, slow breath of air. "Yes. That's right. And if any of you breath a word of this to Ezra before I have a chance to speak to him, you'll be doing gun safety presentations in elementary schools for the next six months."

"I can't believe they're doing this, Chris. They're not giving him any time at all…and then he's going to be forced to testify…" Nathan protests trailed off.

"This is so unfair," JD raged on behalf of his friend.

"No, it's not. And if you want to help Ezra, then let me be the one to tell him."

"That which does not kill us makes us strong," Josiah philosophized bitterly.

No one said anything then, for each man turned over in his mind the question that had been thrust full-force at them: _Was he? Was Ezra Standish strong enough to take it head-on and still remain standing after what he had already been through?_

_Friday Morning_

The sign on the building read, 'Denver City Aphasia Center'. Ezra Standish read the words as he stood outside the double-glass doors of the building trying to quell his nervousness before entering to embark upon the quest to get his life back.

On Thursday afternoon, Nathan had brought over lunch and they had passed a pleasant afternoon and Ezra had endured Nathan's probing questions about the state of his health with patience and grace.

It was only later that they butted heads and some of the old tensions between them reared up. Nathan had argued that it would be best if he accompanied Ezra there on his first appointment at the Aphasia Center, but Ezra had firmly declined. He wasn't a child, nor had he lost his ability to comprehend what was said to him. Whatever happened and whatever his treatment plan entailed, he was fully capable of complying with it or modifying it to better suit his needs, if necessary.

Aside from that, Ezra didn't care to have a witness for his nervousness. His teammates knew him too well for him to be able to entirely hide his trepidation.

That was how Ezra Standish found himself standing on the outside of the building where his immediate future lay. Taking a deep breath, Ezra pushed open the doors and for the very first time, stepped into the confines of the Aphasia Center. What he expected to see was the typical, impersonal, institutional décor for a medical waiting room, complete with hard-back plastic chairs and stacks of outdated magazines. What he saw was a pleasant room bathed in warm lighting and tastefully furnished with comfortable looking leather couches and finely-made bookshelves that looked antique. The room also boasted a clean children's play area filled with books and colorful puzzles as well as tables and chairs small enough to accommodate pint-sized patients. Between the décor and all the books that filled the shelves, the place resembled more an inviting lounge at a library than a medical waiting room. It was all rather homey feeling and Ezra was grateful for the way it suggested a more relaxed environment.

Ezra glanced around, noting the individuals currently in the waiting room. Eight people were present. Two adults were at the check-in counter, two more were sitting on one of the couches reading, while the fourth adult, a young mother, was sitting on the floor helping a quiet little girl play with a puzzle. When Ezra gazed upon the seventh person his heart ached in reaction at the sight of the young, wheelchair-bound boy all of ten or eleven years old.

The way the youth's thick, dark fringe of hair fell over his forehead and hung right above his eyes poignantly reminded Standish of a younger version of JD. The youth sat playing a game on his PSP while next to him sat a tired looking woman Ezra assumed was the boy's mother.

In a moment, Ezra became aware of the fact that he was staring in a way quite contrary to the manners of any true gentlemen and he quickly looked elsewhere - but not before the boy looked up suddenly as if sensing eyes upon his person. The Southerner found himself looking directly into a pair of dark eyes that were at once piercing and wide with innocence.

The sorrow Ezra felt in response was disconcerting, even to one as secretly tender and protective towards children as he. Ezra was struck by the thought that somehow, in some form, aphasia had touched the lives of all of these people. While he felt for all of them he couldn't help but be particularly moved by the children, especially the young boy who made him think of JD. This boy should have been outside playing with his friends, kicking a ball and having rough, boyish adventures. He shouldn't be stuck in a wheelchair, nor should he have to deal with aphasia on top of being deprived the use of his legs.

Standish fought off his melancholy and approached the receptionist's area where a young, blonde woman was busy handling phone calls while a second woman with long dark hair and a ready smile was checking in patients. Ezra got in line behind a middle aged woman and her husband and began covertly observing the interaction between the couple and the center staff while he waited.

When it was his turn, the brown-haired woman whose name tag read, 'Paige' smiled brightly at him and Ezra detected a hint of something more besides professional courtesy behind it.

"Good morning, are you checking in for an appointment?" Paige asked.

"Yes," Ezra replied, smoothly handing the young woman the appointment card he'd been given, thus conveniently skipping the ordeal of having to explain anything with words..

Paige read the card and then looked up again. "Of course. You're Dr. Spencer's new patient. Please have a seat and fill out these forms." Paige handed Ezra a clip board with papers attached to it and a pen. Ezra took the forms and moved away to find a seat.

There was an empty place next to the boy in the wheelchair. It was also the last place he wanted to sit. The boy was no longer playing his game, but was looking at the newcomer with apparent interest. Ezra's instincts were telling him that sitting next to the boy meant interaction and interaction was the last thing he wanted at the moment. What he wanted was to see Lillian Spencer for he was single-mindedly focused upon committing to memory every exercise, every trick and every test the speech therapist would give him in order to get him back on the road to normalcy. Ezra was determined that when he left the building today it would be to go home and work the hell out of every exercise, every suggestion given until he no longer needed to.

Ezra was racked by a fleeting moment of indecision. He could attract attention to himself by remaining standing while filling out the forms, or he could have a seat and do it under the curious stare of the boy. Having made up his mind, Ezra sighed discretely. There was no help for it. He would take the seat next to the boy and simply hope to avoid any unwanted entanglements.

Ezra sat down and began filling out the forms.

_Denver ATF Headquarters_

Josiah Sanchez leaned his large frame back in his chair and made a show of eying the time on the wall clock despite the fact that he could have easily checked the time from his own watch or computer monitor.

Nathan observed his older friend and knew instantly that something was up. Nathan looked amused. "Got an appointment or somethin'?"

"Nope, but I think I'll give Maude a call to see how she's getting on with our wayward brother."

Nathan laughed low and shook his head. Josiah was impossibly smitten with Maude Standish though Nathan knew that was never going anywhere. Josiah knew it too, but he enjoyed just indulging in a phantom courtship with the woman he found exasperatingly enchanting.

"If you're still worried about Vin's decision to bug out of there, don't be. I had lunch with those two yesterday and they seem to be getting along just fine."

"Hmm," Josiah said thoughtfully. He, of all people, understood that with the Standish's, appearances were everything. What was perception may have very little to do with reality. The big profiler kept silent regarding his theory. Instead, he picked up the phone and dialed Ezra's number. On the fourth ring his ears were rewarded with the dulcet Southern tones of Maude Standish's voice.

"Ms. Standish," Josiah practically crooned.

Nathan was hard pressed not to roll his eyes.

Slight pause. "Why, good morning…?" Josiah heard Maude reply in a pleasant if not slightly uncertain-sounding tone. Nathan laughed then, one of good nature when he saw Josiah's crestfallen expression morph into something more hopeful.

"It's Josiah Sanchez, Ma'am. I just thought I'd call to see if there was anything you needed. Anything that I can get for you. Anything at all."

"No. Don't you think you've done quite enough already?"

Maude's sudden icy tone completely waylaid Josiah. Clearly he'd raised her Southern ire and he had no idea how or why. He went for the cautious approach. "Whatever I've done to offend you, I am sincerely sorry, Ms. Standish," he offered.

"Bancroft. My last name is still Bancroft and I'll thank you to remember it," Maude snapped peevishly.

"Of course," Josiah said. He was even more confused, but if that's what Maud wanted, then he would comply though she had not seemed to mind being addressed as Ms. Standish in lieu of the long string of names she touted. "I really am sorry if I upset you in anyway." Though not a Southerner and as big as a giant, Josiah carried his own brand of gentility and wisdom that many a woman found appealing.

"Do you have any idea of just how shocking I found Ezra's condition which you were less than candid about? You should have been completely forthright about his…communication difficulties."

"Well now as I recall, I told you that Ezra was recovering. And that was and is the truth," Josiah responded in his most reasonable-sounding voice.

"You should have told me…" Maude replied stubbornly thought her voice had started to soften a bit.

"Do you love him any less for it?" Josiah challenged.

There was a pause and then Maude sighed and spoke softly. "Of course not. I love him. I've _always_ loved my son."

Sanchez was enormously relieved that Maude's answer, though spoken softly, was fiercely sincere.

Suddenly Maude's voice through the receiver came back strong and forceful. "In any event, it's water under the bridge." She changed the subject, "Ezra has gone to for his first appointment with the speech therapist, did you know that?"

"Yes, Ma'am, Nathan mentioned it when he came back from lunch yesterday. When will he be back?" Josiah inquired, relieved that the tension had been dispelled.

"I really don't know, but I'm going to return to my hotel room shortly. It would be a shame to let it go to waste when I paid so much money for it."

Josiah shook his head. Maude could easily have checked out of her expensive hotel and stayed over at Ezra's, unless…Josiah frowned at the unpleasant thought that was beginning to take shape in his mind. "You aren't planning on leaving anytime soon are you?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. I dropped everything to get here and I left quite a few things quite inconveniently up in the air back in Monte Carlo. I've seen my son for my own eyes and it is as you say, he's alive and by no means still in danger of imminent death."

"You can't just leave after you just arrived. You'll break Ezra's heart," Josiah protested, trying hard to hide his sudden ire.

"Nonsense," Maude's laugh sounded nervous. "Ezra is extremely resilient and I raised him to be self-reliant. We enjoyed a nice visit - considering the circumstances. Now I can leave."

Sorrow settled somewhere on Josiah's great heart. Maude was running. Ezra had never been particularly open about his childhood, but one thing Josiah had perceived was that the younger man was no stranger to the pain of emotional abandonment. Still, Maude had come because she genuinely wanted to see her son, but whatever her reasons were, she did not have it in her to see her son through the difficult work of rehabilitation.

"I sincerely hope that whatever your plans are they don't include having Ezra come back from his first speech therapy appointment to an empty home and a vacated hotel room," Josiah said in a controlled tone that held just a hint of a warning to it.

"Don't you be a silly goose. That would be ill-mannered of me," Maude answered, sounding exactly like that was what she had been contemplating. "I'll just speak with him when he returns home. Now I really have to finish making my travel plans. Good-bye, Josiah."

Before Josiah could say another word he heard the click of the receiver.  
The conversation was over in more ways than one. For a minute Josiah didn't move, didn't say anything at all. Then he carefully placed his phone's receiver down and got up.

Nathan fixed expressive, dark eyes on Josiah's rapidly brooding, angry expression. "What's wrong?"

"Maude's leaving town."

Nathan looked astonished. "You're kidding right? She just got here," he said in disbelief. "Of all the selfish - "

"It's not as straight forward as that, Nate. Be sure a lot easier if it were," Josiah said softly.

"And Ezra's fine with that?" Nathan asked incredulously.

The big man shrugged his shoulders. "He doesn't know yet. And whether he is or isn't, you and I aren't likely to know because Ezra will never let on."

"You're right about that. If Ezra doesn't want you to know a thing then a man's gonna work himself to death tryin' to figure it out." Nathan sighed and rose from his chair. "Let's say you and me go grab us a cup of coffee from the cantina?"

Josiah readily agreed. "After you," he gestured with his hand and Nathan walked ahead.

By seemingly mutual agreement, neither man mentioned Maude Standish-Deveraux- LaCroix-Bancroft for the remainder of the day.

The inevitable happened by the time Ezra Standish had painstakingly worked his way only half-way down the third page of the forms.

It was taking all his powers of concentration to write his answers and even then, he had no way of knowing for sure that he had used the correct word. He no longer felt quite like himself performing such a mundane task. Oh his hand still fashioned the meticulously neat letters that would have made a 14th Century monk proud, but he required intense effort to pull forth what he thought was the correct word from his mind.

His head was bent over the clipboard, brow furrowed when he heard it. A small, halting voice, that could belong only to the young boy in the wheelchair, spoke. Ezra's hand froze, but he did not look up from the clipboard. Was the boy really addressing him? The boy spoke again and this time there was no mistaking it; the child had spoken to him.

"Hi," the boy said. When Ezra reluctantly looked at the boy, he found that he was looking not into a face full of misery at his sorry predicament, but one that was open, engaging, and very much reflecting a fighting spirit. In the boy, Ezra recognized a player who had been dealt a bad hand and was still in the game in spite of it.

Ezra smiled; not the fake smile reserved for targets and pissed-off bosses, but the one freely given to children and other innocents. "Hello," Ezra spoke, hoping that's what he said.

The boy smiled back. "My Troy. What you?"

Ezra's own damaged brain worked overtime to puzzle out what he assumed was an introduction. For a moment, his mind was blank - and then he got it. The boy's name was Troy and the child was asking about his name. _Ok, I could do that. _"Ezra Standish." Standish deliberately and carefully reached over and took the boy's right hand in both of his and shook it. This made the young boy's face light up with delight at being acknowledged so.

The boy's mother, who had been watching the exchange with a worried expression, seem to visibly relaxed. Nonetheless, she turned to her son. "Troy how many times have I told you not to bother people? Leave the nice man alone so he can finish up his paperwork."

Ezra was quietly appalled. Bother? The boy, in spite of his infirmities had the courage to reach out to a total stranger. Was this the message the friendly, brave boy was getting from society? From his own mother?

Ezra was in a bind and he keenly felt it. He wanted to answer. He wanted to reassure the mother that young Troy had not been bothering him, yet he flushed when he realized that had not been entirely true. He'd almost avoided taking a seat next to the boy for that very reason; truth be told not because the boy might address him, but because if he were to be addressed he knew he could never ignore the child. He would have to speak and sooner or later the clear, simple one-word answers would have to give way to longer, more complex sentences that, in turn, would sound like garbled strings of nonsensical speech.

Much to his embarrassment, that is exactly what occurred when he attempted to explain that it was quite all right and that Troy hadn't been bothering him. "You see for all right when him no bothering dillar."

The smile vanished from his face and he looked away.

He heard a gentle voice speaking to him. "It's all right, Mr. Standish. I understand you - or at least I think I have a good idea what you said."

Standish looked at Troy's mother. The woman had dark circles underneath her eyes that her makeup could not disguise. Faint lines on her face showed an untold story of stress. The woman wore her prematurely graying hair held back in a ponytail that didn't quite capture all of the hair in place. Still, her smile for Ezra was genuinely kind.

"I'm Troy's mom, Rebecca Reynolds." She looked with a mixture of love and sadness at her son. "Troy was in a terrible accident during a football game and I almost lost him. He was getting better when…" her voice tailed off in remembered pain, then came back again. "He had a stroke while he was in ICU. Can you believe that? My baby. He's only eleven years old." Even now with the reality right before her eyes, her voice still belied her disbelief that someone so young should be thus stricken.

Ezra was shocked at hearing what had befallen the child and he made no effort to hide it. Still - Troy, was an irrepressible soul and that was a trait Ezra greatly admired.

Troy Reynolds shook his head and rolled his eyes expressively. "Mooom". The word was long and drawn out - a sign of a boy's exasperation with his mother rather than one signifying a speech infirmity. Ezra silently saluted the boy. _Good for you. Keep fighting. _

Ten minutes later, after Ezra had handed in his completed forms, he heard his name being called. He looked up and saw Lillian Spencer, the speech language pathologist, approaching.

The tall woman was wearing an open, white doctor's coat over a flower-print, flowing skirt and blue jersey top. She smiled warmly at him while she peered at Ezra over the top of her wire-frame glasses. Ezra stood up.

"Hello, Mr. Standish. It's good to see you looking so well. Please follow me back to my office."

Ezra was secretly relieved that Dr. Spencer did not seem to require a response as she spun on her heels and began walking down the hall to her office.

Once they had arrived, Lillian Spencer indicated that Ezra should have a seat at the table, rather than in one of the office chairs close to her desk. She too took a seat at the table across from Ezra. "Mr. Standish, the first thing I'd like to do aside from welcoming you to the center is to ask how you've been feeling since being released from the hospital."

Ezra started to open his mouth, then opted for shrugging his shoulders noncommittally instead. _For Heaven's sake, she's a trained speech pathologist, why is it so hard to speak in front of this woman?_ Standish knew he had pride, and he knew he was instinctively distrustful of medical professionals in general, but there was nothing about this older woman that did not exude professional competence.

Ezra saw that Dr. Spencer was looking at him with a patient expression on her face.

"I think you should try this again and Mr. Standish this time, let go of any inhibitions you may have and just try and answer verbally. Remember, you and I are working together for the same goal. If, however, you feel too uncomfortable communicating with me orally, then you may write instead," Dr Spencer said as she gestured towards a pad and container holding pencils, pens and colorful crayons.

The crayons made him think of Troy Reynolds and in doing so, he felt rather sheepish. Ezra nodded his head, concentrated, and answered while Dr. Spencer carefully observed his face and body language. In his mind, Ezra provided a truthful answer, "I am no longer feeling so wretchedly fatigued and for that, I am truly grateful."

However, his words came out as, "that's all jopey and feeling for rested and it's like when I was grateful."

Dr. Spencer looked encouragingly at Ezra. "Thank you, Mr. Standish."

Ezra doubted whether or not the doctor, trained professional or not, had understood him, but the sky hadn't fallen in and he was still sitting there.

"I'd like to take a moment to explain a few things about our treatment approaches here at that Aphasia Center of Denver," Dr. Spencer said. "We don't believe in a one-size-fits all protocol. Many places focus on traditional one-on-one speech therapy approach, and a handful are starting to use alternative treatments that involve patients interacting with each other in group settings. This type of treatment encourages patients to communicate the way they would in their actual day to day lives. Here we offer our patients both approaches along with special classes, in whatever percentage suites the individual."

Dr. Spencer paused to allow for any questions, but Ezra was too interested in listening to what the woman was saying to have any.

Dr. Spencer continued, "What I'd like is for you to be empowered in a situation where many aphasia patients feel powerless. By allowing you to decide what types of activities work for you, some of that control you may feel you have lost is restored."

Ezra found all of that enormously reassuring. Dr. Spencer really did, in some measure, understand how out of control he'd been feeling since he'd been made aware of his aphasia. For the first time since he'd met Dr. Lillian Spencer he truly felt that maybe his time at the center wasn't something to simply be endured.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

AN: Greetings! I'm posting this, as yet, unbetaed update 'cause I sort of gave my word that Stung would be updated before the end of the weekend. My sincere apologies for the very long delay. In so much as I can blame a certain brash young, Starfleet Captain, a grumpy doctor and a hybrid Vulcan for the delay, I do want to assure anyone reading this that Stung will NEVER be abandoned. It WILL be finished. At least I do believe in offering lengthy updates! : ) Enjoy and reviews are always deeply appreciated.

She was gone.

Ezra caught his breath and stood stock still in the doorway of his home. He didn't need his eyes to verify that his mother was no longer there. Much more than stillness and the absence of her perfume screamed of the void left behind in the wake of her departure. A long parade of minutes passed him by in which he did nothing. Finally, he shook off the grip of paralysis and quietly shut the door behind him.

His feet moved him automatically in the direction of his telephone, but he caught himself and aborted the movement. It would do no good to call Maude's hotel room, for Ezra knew in his heart that not only had his mother left his condo, she had packed her bags and left Denver too without even saying good-bye.

He should have known better. He should have known that the bond of intimacy that had been woven with all the magic from a sorcerer's wand last night would serve, not as the foundation to bind them together, but as the catalyst to send Maude packing.

His heart throbbed with the old, familiar ache but he ruthlessly tamped it down. Why should he feel this way? Maude Standish had given her son all that she was capable of giving. For a moment in time, for a sweet few precious hours of intimacy, Maude had let down the impenetrable barriers she'd erected around her heart to let her son in. She'd shared personal things with him, and her eyes, far more than her words, had told him that she loved him, was proud of him, and was not repulsed by his enforced physical concession to imperfection.

He wouldn't trade that time for anything. A rueful smile shaped itself on his lips and instead of going to the phone to check for messages, he went to his decanter and poured himself a brandy. He raised his glass in a silent toast – but not to his mother. It was to Chris Larabee to whom Ezra raised his glass for once again he found himself indebted to the man in black. Bemused, Ezra wondered how he'd ended up with two of the most enigmatic, complex people in his life.

It was true that when he'd lain dying he had seen a part of Larabee that he'd never known existed. The memory of how his boss and friend had looked down at him with eyes full of raw, naked emotion as he felt his life slipping away was one that would never fade. Larabee's formidable strength of will had shown like a beacon in those customarily hard eyes. Those hard eyes had urged, no I_demanded_/Iwith warrior fierceness, that Ezra fight for his life. And quite remarkably, fear had been present in those eyes too; fear on I_his_/Ibehalf as if Ezra's life actually meant something to the man.

But that memory was not the reason Ezra now raised his glass in solitary salute to the ATF team leader. He did so because Larabee had shown him compassion and understanding when he'd asked Ezra about his mother's whereabouts at a time when he'd secretly harbored a very real and terrifying fear that he wasn't going to make it.

Had it not been for Larabee's efforts to ascertain his wishes, Ezra would never have found the courage to ask for his mother's presence at his bedside, for what would have been the point in asking for something that could never be? In his muddled state of thinking, it would be far better to die knowing that his mother had not, once again, deemed something else more important than his own needs. As long as he did not ask, he could have clung to the fact that Maude did not know, therefore she was blameless in not coming.

But somewhere in the midst of all of that pain and fear he had looked for courage within himself, and finding it lacking, had leaned on the courage of Chris Larabee, freely offered.

And then his miracle had arrived. Standish shuddered slightly when he thought about how close he'd come to going to his grave, and in the process, taking with him the unanswered question that had haunted him nearly all his life: did Maude really love him at all?

Thanks to Larabee, Ezra had his answer. Maude had come and without Chris' gentle but direct intervention he would have never known the joy of having spent those precious hours with her wherein his mother had, without the reservation he'd known all his life, unlocked the doors of her heart.

Ezra vowed that he would find a way to repay Chris for that without any undue displays of emotion that would only make the both of them uncomfortable. A dimpled grin appeared on his face and in a flash, winked out like the brilliance of a shooting star. Standish shook his head ruefully. He had no illusions about Maude morphing into a more conventional representation of motherhood. Maude was still Maude and the woman would go on with her life as she always had. Whenever she deemed it necessary, she would lie, cheat, con, and beguile her way through circumstances and usually, that meant that somebody else was left holding the bag.

Over all Ezra's pragmatic acceptance of what was and was not subject to change regarding Maude's nature, lay the priceless knowledge that his mother really did love him. When he had truly needed her, Maude had come half-way across the world to be with him simply because he had needed her. That fact alone was sufficient consolation for his soul that admittedly, felt bereft in the wake of his mother's sudden departure.

The relief that also came with that realization was almost enough to distract Standish from his increasing worry over the fast-approaching return to work on Monday morning. Physically, he felt fine. The vestiges of the near constant exhaustion that had plagued him when he'd first fallen ill, and that had followed him home from the hospital had pretty much vanished.

He was committed to working hard to overcome the aphasia, but he had no delusions about resuming his duties to Team Seven as if nothing had changed. Something I_ had_/Ichanged. He'd changed. There was no denying that his wrist now sported a medic-alert bracelet, or that he carried an epi-pen on his person. Despite those visible changes, there was one definite thing about Ezra that had not changed. The undercover agent's uncanny instincts were screaming at him that something was afoot, but that no one was saying just what. Unknown to Ezra, Larabee had forbidden the other members of the team from breaking the news to Ezra about the impending medical board before he himself, on Monday, personally delivered the news contained in the letter.

The rest of that day, followed by the weekend, passed by Ezra at a leisurely pace. Though he never shook off completely the feeling that his friends knew something that he did not, overall, it was a period of exercising, reading, and long stretches of solitude broken by impromptu appearances by Josiah, Nathan, followed by one from JD and Buck.

Josiah had been the first one to stop by on Saturday morning. Never an earlier riser, except by necessity, at 9:00am, Ezra had still been asleep in bed. Only the persistent ringing of the doorbell compelled him to rise, throw his robe over his sleep attire and shuffle over to open the door. Ezra stood in bare feet, rumpled sleep pants, and robe, rubbing his eyes in confusion at the wall of denim-clad flesh looming in the doorway.

Ezra looked up into Josiah Sanchez' visage and his sluggish brain barely registered and automatically filed away the odd, pensive expression on the big man's face. Sanchez had grinned broadly and told him that he'd just 'happened to be in the neighborhood' and oh by the way, would he mind if he used Ezra's gourmet cooking pans to reheat the containers of unidentifiable food he held up in his large hands.

Dumbfounded and half-asleep, Ezra had mutely nodded, opened the door wider and stepped aside to allow Josiah in. Josiah made his way to the kitchen, but Ezra wasn't permitted the luxury of stumbling back to his own warm bed. He would have been remiss in his southern gentlemanly manners to do such a thing, so instead, he found himself pouring coffee and keeping company with Josiah.

Josiah had proceeded to make himself at home in Ezra's kitchen and in no time, Ezra found himself seated at the breakfast bar across from Josiah, watching as the big man heaped a huge portion of food on to two plates. It wasn't until he was about half-way through devouring his own plate of food and completely awake did he realize that he'd been hood-winked.

In the neighborhood his ass! Standish called the older man on it, getting his point across with an impressive combination of gestures and short, moderately mish-mashed words. Josiah had merely took a long sip of Ezra's gourmet coffee and stared mildly over the rim at Ezra. "That's some mighty fine tasting coffee, son," he'd said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Ezra didn't bother with his usual acerbic negation of Sanchez' implication that he was the product of the older man's loins. Indeed, he had already surmised that, from now until Monday, he was most likely going to see others of his teammates who, 'just happened to be in the neighborhood'. Just a few short months ago, that someone would dare come uninvited to his very private home for the purpose of hanging out would have been an idea that filled him with both dread and annoyance.

Now the idea made Ezra sit back and take stock of the situation, starting with the fact that Josiah had brought over a really tasty breakfast that he really had enjoyed. In the privacy of his own heart, Ezra could shamelessly admit to himself that he rather liked the idea of friends bringing him food that he didn't have to prepare himself. The thought brought out a soft chuckle. The apple that fell from the tree may not had rolled quite as far away as he liked to believe, Ezra acknowledged with a wry smile.

Josiah peered over his coffee cup at the sound of Ezra's chuckle. With the exception of the one, earlier moment, the older man had maintained his good cheer throughout the meal until suddenly, Ezra saw the pensive look return to his face as though Josiah was bothered by something. There was silence until Sanchez cleared his throat. "So…ah, is everything okay between you and Maude?"

Ezra looked at Josiah sharply. The question, and the manner in which it was asked, sounded strangely off - and the older man's kind eyes looked…guilty. What on Earth did Sanchez have to be guilty about? Ezra wondered. He grew annoyed as a streak of uncharacteristic anxiety ran through him at the thought of the unknown.

Ezra's perception of Josiah's behavior was dead-on, though he had no idea what was the source of Josiah's apparent distress. The Southerner also had no way of knowing that when the older man had first arrived at his door, Josiah had stood outside nervously for a full three minutes before ringing the doorbell.

Worried due to the belief that, despite Maude's assurances to the contrary, she had packed up and left town without a word to her son, Josiah had paced pensively in front of Ezra's door. If that was indeed the case, how much devastation would the woman have left in her wake? As he stood outside that door, Josiah had felt guilt come over him. Not for the first time did he ask himself why he hadn't checked on Ezra last night, though in truth, he actually did know why.

After his phone conversation with Maude the day before while he'd been at work, Josiah had gone with Nathan for a coffee break. Unhappy, Sanchez had told the medic that he strongly suspected that Maude planned on skipping town without a word to Ezra. Nathan had been appalled that Maude was considering leaving town at all and the two men had debated hotly as to what to do. Josiah was of the opinion that Ezra didn't deserve to find out after the fact and that Maude's actions, even if Ezra was wily enough to anticipate them, would wound him deeply.

Nathan on the other hand, had played Devil's advocate. What if Maude had been contemplating just such an action but I_had_/I changed her mind? If Josiah went over to Ezra's place with questions and ill-disguised concern, trying to determine if Maude had left, and whether or not Ezra knew it - and Maude had not left… Josiah has sighed then, seeing Nathan's point without having to have the medic spell it out for him. It was not his intention to stir up trouble between mother and son, but he could see that an unforeseen consequence to his actions could be exactly that.

In the end, Sanchez had done nothing. He had had to work a little harder at getting to sleep that night, and when the morning dawned bright and early, Josiah had risen from his bed and hatched a plan to find out the truth under the guise of wanting to breakfast with Ezra.

Josiah was staring into his coffee cup and Ezra's agitation increased just watching him. He wanted to shake the man and demand that he answer his questions.

During the last two days Ezra had become more accustomed to putting great effort into formulating sentences, deliberately concentrating on each word before speaking it. As a man blessed with a high-degree of eloquence, he found this enormously frustrating and tiring, especially when, in his mind, he had spoken correctly, only to be told that what he'd actually said was mostly unintelligible. This time Ezra's agitation caused him to forgo the usual deliberative effort and he answered without hesitation - with predictable poor results ensuing.

In Ezra's mind he said, "Everything's fine. Why wouldn't it be?"

Josiah heard: 'This is better. Why when it sure?' The profiler frowned, trying to decipher Ezra's speech. Josiah forced himself to look Ezra in the eye, and was immediately ashamed. The relaxed, open Ezra who had welcomed him into his home was gone. Ezra had transformed into a man who was eyeing him with suspicion, tension barely kept in check. Josiah realized that he needed to get to the point, but he was failing miserably. "Ezra…have you…did you speak with Maude last night or this morning?" he tentatively asked.

Ezra raised an eyebrow. The last time he'd spoken to his mother had been yesterday in the late morning, shortly before he'd departed for his first appointment at the speech therapy center. Had he known that she was going to vanish just as quickly as she had come, he would have at least offered to drive her to the airport and sent her off with a proper farewell. But he hadn't known, and she had deprived him of the chance to say good-bye.

The truth hit him then. I_Josiah Sanchez knew. Sonofabitch! Josiah had known that Maude was leaving and had kept silent._/IHe should have been irritated with Josiah. He should have felt betrayed. That knowledge should have kindled hurt feelings over what Maude had done. Funny thing was, he didn't feel any of those things. In fact, watching the big man squirm, Ezra was overwhelmed with both a keen sense of relief and more than a little amusement. Ezra understood all too well the position the older man must have been in, especially if Maude had confided in him. He didn't blame Sanchez, additionally, Josiah's guilty conscience sprang from something that could not be undone.

Ezra reached for his pad and pen. This was 'cheating,' he thought, but he needed to make sure Josiah understood that he was aware of the situation and that he wasn't bothered by it. Carefully, pausing between each word, he wrote out his question, then with a smirk on his face, he turned the pad around for Josiah to read.

IYou knowing Maude in leaving?/I

Josiah read the note, and with only a moment's hesitation, answered with a sheepish shrug of his broad shoulders. "Yeah, son, I knew." He paused and cleared his throat. "Maude called me yesterday after you'd gone to your therapy appointment. She told me she was leaving but she swore that she had no intention of just packing her bags and leaving without a word to you first."

Ezra looked at Josiah with an incredulous, 'and you believed her?' expression etched on his face that Josiah had no problems reading.

"No, Ezra. I didn't believe her. I wish to God I did and then I would have gotten a decent night's sleep and not felt so guilty about not saying anything to you," Josiah's deep voice rumbled.

Ezra shrugged his shoulders in the most casual expression he could muster. "Josiah. Okay." He tried again, "It's okay." he said, this time perfectly. He smiled, pleased with himself because of Josiah's blinding grin.

"That's great, Ezra. That's just great," Josiah said, hoping that Ezra knew he meant more than the short, but correct sentence.

Ezra did.

Not long after that, Josiah departed, leaving Ezra to quietly reflect on the thoughtfulness and caring of his friend. All in all it had been a most pleasant, unexpected visit. Josiah had not over-stayed his welcome; he'd brought over a delicious breakfast, and after tidying up the kitchen, the Team Seven profiler had taken his leave. He'd even left Ezra's abode with a clear conscience.

Ezra never did go back to bed that morning. Instead, he showered, got dressed and began working on the speech therapy exercises Dr. Spencer had given him, attacking them with single-minded focus. Three hours later Ezra checked his watch in anticipation of who else just might be in the neighborhood.

Standish wagered that it would be Nathan. Even when having only himself to bet against, he could not resist the urge to leave nothing to chance. Shamelessly, Ezra dialed Nathan's home number, and when the medic failed to answer he at least surmised that the medic was not home. Thirty-minutes later the doorbell rang and this time, Ezra dressed and awake, opened the door to find Nathan standing there with his hand holding a brown bag held down by his side as wishing to conceal it.

Nathan fumbled a bit nervously through a lame explanation of why he was there along the lines of, "I happened to be at the library around the corner and while I was leaving I happened to see that yuppy deli place you told us about once." It was clear that the medic had not even noticed that Ezra looked wholly unsurprised to see Nathan standing at this doorstep.

Ezra smirked good-naturedly. I_That's two coincidences._/IHe held open the door and with a grand gesture, ushered the medic inside.

Ezra recognized a lost cause. There was no point in telling the others that he was fine, that it was not necessary that any of them visit or bring him food. He felt perfectly capable of cooking or going to a restaurant if he wanted to eat. There was no doubt in the Southerner's mind that Nathan's 'fortuitous' visit would not be the last.

What ensued was a lunch visit replete with his favorite turkey, bacon and avocado sandwich, and Nathan's surreptitious attempts to glean information from Ezra. Nathan tried his best to look as though he was not trying to ascertain, without directly asking, whether or not the stubborn Southerner was wearing his medic-alert bracelet in between questions about how he was feeling and how his first session of speech therapy had gone.

Ezra did his best to reassure Nathan, hoping to rely on a more visual representation to indicate the state of his health. Smiling, he stood up and turned around in a full circle under Nathan's discerning stare. Ezra was confident he would pass Jackson's scrutiny. He was well-rested, his appetite had returned, and he was actively engaged in the exercises to overcome the effects of the aphasia. Much to Ezra's chagrin, Nathan's only response was a frown, and so Ezra endeavored to give him a simple, verbal answer. After a moment of concentration, he managed to articulate a clear, "good."

This too did not bring about the desired effect as Nathan's expression only deepened into one that was indicative of a man with a troubling concern on his mind. Ezra said nothing further, choosing instead to savory the delicious sandwich, all the while cataloguing the signals he observed with knowing eyes: the fidgeting body Nathan could not quite still, the intelligent, deep brown eyes that flitted away from his own gaze just a tad too quickly. Jackson was having a difficult time hiding his unease about something, Ezra correctly deduced.

Ezra's relationship with Nathan had never been an easy one. Their current friendship notwithstanding, at certain times it still didn't take much to set off each others' nerves. Ezra could not help but feel that whatever unpleasant thing lurked around the corner: one; Nathan knew what it was, and two; he also had a right to know what it was. The anxious feeling which Standish had vanquished with Josiah's visit returned with a vengeance, in turn, causing him to grow irritated with the medic.

Ezra looked at Nathan with a calmness he did not feel. "What?" he demanded, a sharp edge to his tone. His anxiety made his aphasia symptoms worsen and what normally would have been a manageable expression came out as an unintelligible utterance. Despite the mangled question, Ezra's cool, green eyes communicated quite effectively his demand for information.

Nathan looked across the table at the man who was looking back at him with a hard stare. Those jade eyes held challenge, anxiety, anger…and a belief that he would tell Ezra the truth, no matter how painful that truth was. Jackson sighed miserably. He I_did_/Iknow about the letter demanding Standish's appearance before a Medical Board that awaited him. Unfortunately, Chris Larabee had told them all, in no uncertain terms, that no one was to discuss the letter and its contents until he had personally delivered it to Standish. Over Nathan's objections, and the support of the others, Larabee had stubbornly insisted that Ezra be allowed to enjoy his weekend in peace without the stress of knowing that he was to be dragged so soon in front of a Medical Board.

Jackson scowled. Damn that man for failing to realize that not a thing was wrong with Ezra's powers of perception! Nathan Jackson had never been a good liar and his poker face was non-existent. The medic silently berated himself. I _I should have known better._/IHe couldn't hope to spend time in Ezra's company and the other man not discern that he was hiding something. The trouble was, even if Ezra asked, he wouldn't disobey Larabee's direct order to keep his mouth shut.

Nathan made the only strategic move he could think of, even if it did scream, "coward" to him: he left. Nathan first feigned looking at his watch, then he jumped up, nearly knocking over the remaining soda in his glass as he made his way to the front door. "Ezra, I have to go, I'm supposed to pick up Raine from the hospital real soon," he mumbled, the lie sounding thick and awkward on his tongue. He knew Ezra had heard it too and it made him wince inside as memories of how their relationship had been in the early days rose up like a corpse that refused to stay dead. Jackson recoiled inside; he never wanted things to be like that again.

Nonetheless, the medic beat a hasty retreat, and when he closed the door it was on the sight of his friend sitting motionless at the table, wearing a silent look of betrayal on his face.

That evening the doorbell rang one more time, and when Ezra opened the door, it was to a laughing Buck and JD who were engaged in a boisterous debate over the dubious merits of Domino's pizza versus Pizza Hut. The aroma of pizza pie wafted upwards from the box balanced preciously on JD's upturned hand as he kept it out of the long reach of Buck's lanky, grabbing arm.

By then, Ezra's darkening mood had blown over like a storm in late summer and he had become much more philosophical about the matter that had earlier left him feeling agitated and betrayed. He was thoroughly tired of his emotions going up and down like a wild roller coaster. Whatever Nathan had been loath to divulge would be revealed sooner or later, he reasoned. And Ezra decided that Monday was as late of a delay that he was willing to tolerate.

Standish made up his mind to talk to Chris to get to the bottom of it upon his return to work, thus quite unwittingly acquiescing to what was Larabee's plan all along.

Buck and JD kept up a steady stream of conversation between mouthfuls of pizza, and boisterous laughing, and Ezra found himself taking on the role of amused spectator of their antics which suited him just fine. Just when he thought he had escaped any need to participate in any topics of serious conversation, Buck turned warm, concerned eyes on Ezra.

"Uh, listen Pard, we heard about Maude leavin' town, " the handsome, dark-haired man's mustache twitched.

"Yeah," JD jumped in, hotly. "I can't believe she did that! What kind of a mother would come all the way to see her dying son and then just take off like that the moment they practically throw him out of the hospital?"

"Kid!" Buck exclaimed. He swiveled his head around to shoot his young roommate an appalled look with expressive eyes that promised retribution later.

"What? It's true - no disrespect to your ma, Ez, I just meant - "

"Never mind, JD," Buck interrupted. The ladies' man turned his attention back to Ezra, half expecting to see Standish glaring angrily at JD.

He wasn't. Rather Standish was looking at his young friend, who had gone slightly red in the face, with an amused expression. Ezra I_did_/Iknow what JD was trying to say, and - no, he took no offense. Ezra appreciated the fact that the younger man saw things through the filter of is own experience. From what everything JD had ever told him about being raised by his mother, their respective mothers had been nothing alike and their experiences had been vastly different. Ezra was thankful for that. The JD Ezra knew and respected most likely would not have survived the Maude style of mothering to become the man JD was today.

Ezra was looking at the uncomfortable expression on the Team's computer and technology expert's face and he was moved to speak without his usual deliberation in his immediate need to reassure the young man that JD's words had not hurt him. "It's all right, JD. My mother's visit was a wonderful, special time for the both of us. Everything is okay between us."

JD and Buck wore matching puzzled expressions and Ezra grimaced. What on Earth had what he said sounded like to his friends? Standish wondered.

Good thing that between the two, JD and Buck were able to decipher Ezra's reply with a healthy dose of humor that further lightened the mood.

Buck looked relieved and JD nodded his head enthusiastically. "That's good, Ezra. I'm glad," the young man said sincerely.

After that, the three men selected an action-packed suspense thriller from Ezra's collection of Blue-Ray discs to watch and when it finally ended some two hours later, Buck and JD said their good-nights and took off leaving behind the crusty remains of a demolished gourmet pizza in the box.

Ezra stood with his back leaning against the door he'd closed on the day and his departing friends with a grateful sigh. He'd been well-fed and well-cared for the entire day - and Ezra didn't think he could take another similar day like it on Sunday.

Standish's smile was an inner one that nonetheless conveyed his genuine sense of satisfaction. He had been thoroughly humbled by the depth of caring his friends had continued to show him when by all outward appearances, he had been perfectly capable of fending for himself. Instead, his friends had arrived in a series of well-timed visits, bringing food and fellowship.

As much as he appreciated what his friends had done, he was profoundly grateful that the next day was Sunday and that he would be left in peace. Ezra Standish was very much still a man who treasured his privacy. Just as sure as he knew his own name, he knew that his friends would instinctively know to leave him to his own mental preparations for his return to work on Monday morning.

He was right. Sunday came and went and when Monday arrived, Ezra, if nothing else, was well-rested with his best game face firmly in place.

Monday morning at the offices of the Denver ATF, Chris Larabee glanced at the wall clock and growled, "where the hell is Standish?" before stalking back to the privacy of his office. The query was more out of habit and a need to reestablish the old, familiar pattern that had Larabee remarking on Ezra's customary tardiness, though truth be told, Ezra still had a window of five minutes in which to appear and be considered 'on time' by Ezra's standards.

Vin smirked, "he's sitting in his Jag in the garage waiting for the precise moment to show up right before Chris goes off."

Nathan looked at the Texan incredulously. "You haven't been out of your seat in the last twenty minutes, you don't know that."

The lean sharpshooter crossed one booted foot over the other and grinned. "Ya, I do, Pard. I know Ezra."

"He's right, Nathan," Josiah joined in. Unlike Vin Tanner's amused expression, the profiler spoke with quiet seriousness. "The one thing our recovering brother's going to want today is a sense of getting back in control. He's only going to come up after he's composed himself and feels ready."

"He seemed ready to come back when Buck and I visited him on Saturday," JD said.

"Yes, but are we ready for him?" Nathan challenged.

"What the hell does that mean, Nathan?" Buck asked evenly.

Nathan looked uncomfortable, but he met Buck's gaze head on. "I mean that we all have our own jobs to do and there are going to be certain challenges with Ezra here and essentially unable to do his. Communication is a central aspect of his job."

Vin's earlier good humor seemed to vanish. "Ez has got some _temporary _difficulties in communicating but there are others things that need doin' to make this team work. Besides, " the sharpshooter added with a self-deprecating expression, "I bet even now Ezra could write a report that makes more sense than one I could write by myself."

The others looked at Vin with a mixture of surprise and amusement. Vin's struggle with undiagnosed dyslexia had been a source of great private humiliation for the soft-spoken man and even now, Vin didn't like to talk about it although everyone knew that Ezra Standish had quietly come along and offered his assistance in making sure Vin's written reports were well-constructed.

"I'm just saying that we need to be prepared to do things differently around here, that's all, especially when Robert Norton's been asked to fill-in on any undercover work that we may need, " Nathan argued tactfully.

"No time like the present, gentlemen."

Five heads swiveled to look in the direction of the speaker who had joined the conversation. Chris Larabee stood in the doorway of his office facing out into the bullpen. He wasn't looking at this team, however. His gaze was firmly fixed somewhere over to the right where the entrance was, and the welcoming expression on the battle-hardened man's face was unmistakable.

Exactly nine days after a swarm of bees had attacked and nearly killed him, Ezra Standish returned to Team Seven. The Southerner, looking smoothly elegant in his finely-cut Italian suit, briefcase in hand, paused in the entrance for a moment before walking over to his desk. As he approached the desk, an amazed, embarrassed expression came over his handsome face. His sojourn across the room was accompanied by a chorus of "welcome back, Ezra's" which the stunned agent acknowledged with a smile that conveyed just how moved he was.

Everyone watched in amusement as Ezra slowly picked his way through the assortment of welcome back décor and gifts that adorned - some would say 'cluttered' - his notoriously neat desk. His time in the hospital had been sudden and relatively short, much of it having been spent in ICU, thus he'd not collected very many get well cards, balloons, or plants. Members of the other teams as well as a contingent of single women who worked administrative staff jobs had chosen now to express their good-wishes to Ezra upon their colleague's return to work.

Standish shook his head, pleased but also wistfully saying good-bye to his attempt to make a low-key return. He knew he was among family when in the midst of his Team Seven brothers, but he had no idea that he was also held in such regard by other members of the Denver ATF. It only served to remind him of how much the Denver ATF was not at all like the cold, hateful place the Atlanta FBI had been. Only his discipline as an undercover agent helped him successfully maintain his dignity in the face of such evidence.

Larabee, perhaps sensing just how thin the layer of smiling assurance Ezra wore really was, reminded everyone that they had a meeting in the conference room in fifteen minutes. Larabee's men recognized a command to return to business at their own respective desks, and they did so. Buck slapped Ezra on the back and offered to 'help' clear the boxes of candy off his desk, looking with a great deal of lust and longing at no less then three boxes of premium chocolates. Ezra showed him a gold-toothed grin and cheerfully flipped him a bird.

Buck, shaking his head and laughing, muttered something about greedy ingrates before he too turned his attention to the contents of a thick file lying on his desk.

By 9:00 am, the members of Team Seven plus Team Three's Robert Norton gathered in the conference room and took up seats in their customary chairs.

Chris kicked off the meeting with no hint that afterwards he'd be getting on with the unpleasant task of meeting, in private, with his undercover agent to give him the Medical Review Board letter. "Good to have you back, Standish," he remarked simply on behalf of all of them. "You know Robert Norton. His Team Leader has graciously consented to lend him to us if we have need of an undercover agent until we can get things sorted out with you."

Vin and Nathan exchanged subtle looks and Buck suddenly found a hangnail utterly fascinating. None of the looks escaped Ezra's attention, but the Southener's face remained placid as he inclined his head towards Robert Norton by way of acknowledgement.

Chris activated the wall screen to reveal the photo of a swarthy, dark-haired man. "This is Enrico Esteban. Former U.S. military man and current FBI informant who knows his way around the west coast drug trade and distribution routes - new routes the FBI says are expanding with an eye on Denver." Larabee paused to look at Ezra, catching the man's eye with a questioning look he knew Ezra would correctly interpret. He wanted to know if Ezra had heard of the man.

Ezra looked carefully at the image on the screen, then he shook his head subtly. No, he did not know that man.

Chris continued, "According to Esteban, the Mendoza drug cartel is supposed to be getting a huge boost in firepower from the recent theft of a sizable quantity of military weapons they arranged to have stolen from a Denver National Guard Unit armory. Here is a list of what was stolen." Larabee clicked a button and the image on the screen changed into an impressive listing of military weapons by type and quantity.

Buck whistled low. "That's a lot of firepower," he observed appreciatively as he mentally catalogued the weapons.

"Sure is," Vin added, "some of those weapons can inflict mass causalities and most can out-gun anything legitimate law enforcement officers have."

"I don't imagine that those weapons are still in Denver, right?" JD asked to the room at large.

Buck snorted. "Those weapons are probably in the hands of cartel foot soldiers south of the border even as we speak."

"Actually no," Larabee said, and there was a curious look of ill-disguised glee on his face when he spoke that made Ezra raise an eyebrow, Vin sit up straighter, and Buck grinning though the ladies' man had no idea why.

"Good criminals aren't what they used to be," Larabee dead panned. " The weapons shipment was quite accidentally intercepted by a gang of local talent - the King Street Boyz. When they discovered what they had they got the bold idea to make the Mendoza cartel pay for the privilege of acquiring them back. Problem is they thought they were dealing with a rival gang's goods - they had no idea they were really fucking with the infamous Mendoza Cartel of Mexico. Let's just say, the cartel sent messages that had our local gang absolutely in a frenzy of terror trying to get the weapons back and save their lives."

The following moment of silence befitted the professionals they were, each agent having the proper appreciation for the serious implications of how far the cartel's reach was - right before contagious laughter burst out among the men. Buck had to wipe the moisture from his eyes, and Ezra turned his head to hide his smirk. That same professionalism allowed them to also appreciate the irony of that situation and the very picture it evoked of the two-bit gang scrambling to save their asses in the wake of their misjudgment.

"The good Lord moves in mysterious ways," Josiah intoned followed by an exaggerated wink.

"Maybe," Larabee replied, all traces of humor gone now. "What we do know is that according to Estaban, the two sides are close to working out a time and place to meet to hand over the stolen weapons. Because we have some familiarity with the King Street Boyz through Ezra's network of informants, the FBI has asked for our assistance in executing a sting operation to nab both the weapons and the members who show up for the trade."

Larabee proceeded to go over specific assignments for what needed to be done, and that instigated a flurry of ideas and opinions being exchanged. When turned his attention to Ezra and Robert, he looked at both men and said, "You two, I'd like to see in my office after we wrap things up here. We've got some practical operational issues to work out and we don't need an audience to do it." His eyes swept over the men in one quick motion. "If no one has any questions, let's get to work."

Josiah, Vin, Buck, Nathan, and JD returned to their respective desks, quietly talking amongst themselves while Larabee, Norton, and Standish headed in the direction of Larabee's office.

Ezra watched Larabee close the door to his office and gesture for him and Robert to have a seat on the couch. Ezra did so, nothing in his body language betraying his uncertainty in the situation. He was uncomfortable. It was one thing to be in front of his friend's and display the symptoms of aphasia, and it was quite another to display them in front of a colleague from another team. It brought to mind all the things that had been churning around in his mind every time he contemplated exactly how he would come back to work and be a contributing member of the team. He was an undercover agent who couldn't talk. If he couldn't talk, how was he going to do his job? In addition to the new case, he still had minor, ongoing ones as well as a major trial looming over his head. The questions concerning his ability to function in the team had gone around and around in his head, with no answer in sight.

Fortunately for Ezra, Larabee had not been an idol boss. He too had contemplated the situation from all angels until he thought he had a clear enough vision of how things could work. The blond leader proceeded to outline a workable plan that would effectively integrate Norton into specific undercover tasks, working with input from Ezra. Ezra, for his part, would to continue to communicate directly with his sources via text messaging as much as possible and perform the meticulous, in-depth research he was known for.

In the end, Ezra had agreed that the numerous adjustments Chris had suggested were reasonable and workable. Quietly, he wowed that they would be necessary for the least amount of time possible.

Norton, who had said very little during the meeting now turned to face Ezra, his expression open and not unmindful of the tact required in the situation. "Ezra, this isn't going to last forever, and I know you'd do the same for my team if our positions were reversed."

There was no way to argue against that because it was true. If ever called upon, he would have been glad to offer his services to help out another team on a temporary basis. Ezra clapped the man's shoulder, "Yes" he replied, choosing to keep his response simple. He tried to tell himself that this was no different from any other time when an injured teammate had been forced to ride a desk while they healed from an injury or illness.

He tried, but inside, he failed.

Ezra barely noticed when Chris dismissed Norton and once again, closed the door. Now it was just the two of them with Ezra sitting across from a grim-faced Chris Larabee. The team leader's eyes were determined, yet full of regret.

Ezra's mouth felt suddenly as dry as the Sahara Desert. I_This is it. The pink elephant in the room everyone tried to ignore is about to start making noise._/I

Larabee reached across the desk and suddenly there was an envelope in his hand with the name, Agent Ezra Standish written on it. "I hate like hell to have to give this to you, Ezra, but I don't have any choice. Timing sucks, I know. " He held the envelope out for Ezra to take.

Ezra stared at the envelope as if Chris were offering him a poisonous snake. Try as he might, he couldn't make his hand move to accept it. That envelope meant trouble, heartache of the career-ending kind, he just I_ knew_/I it.

It was everything Maude had ever warned him about and despite everything he'd ever sacrificed, everything he'd ever done to prove his courage and loyalty to the ATF, he was about to be shown the door.

Something in his face must have conveyed his inner turmoil and despair to the man across from him. "It's not that, Ezra," Chris said in a calm, sure voice. Ezra's hand moved on its own violation to accept the envelope. With steady hands that did not reflect how shaky he felt inside, he opened it, drew out the missive and silently read it, beginning with the first paragraph.

I _In accordance with Personnel Instruction 101.4: Fitness for Field Agent Status, Agent Ezra Standish is required to present himself before a Medical Review Board at the date and time indicated in this notification. _

_Failure to do so will constitute a violation of ATF Conduct and Standards of Fitness._/I

Ezra stopped reading when his eyes drifted down to where the date was indicated. Two weeks. He was being called in front of a Medical Review board in two weeks. Ezra was dumbfounded. This was the last thing he expected. Why did the ATF think he would be over his aphasia in such a short time? What was the hurry? There had to be a mistake.

Ezra continued reading and when he saw the real reason for being summoned before the board so quickly he knew the true depth of his despair. The quick medical board was not due to his aphasia, but rather his severe allergy to bee venom. Of course, Ezra thought bitterly. How could he fight against something that was a permanent condition with no means of getting over it? It wasn't like his aphasia which had the hope of being mitigated. Apparently, that was the conclusion the bureaucratic administration had come to as well. Bee venom allergy equaled unfit for undercover duty.

There was more in the letter. Further down were paragraphs detailing the particulars, such as his rights to have legal representation at his cost, possible outcomes, and the appeals process afterwards. Ezra didn't read any of that. He was incapable. All he could do was sit numbly across from the man who had offered him a lifeline out of the misery that had been Atlanta, only to have his dreams nearly end later on a fateful day on that same man's property.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

**AN Note:**

**Hello Readers! Today is a holiday here and what's a holiday without something to give? : ) Here is another installment of "Stung" – a 23 page one too! Thank you to each and every kind reader who has commented or favorite, or is watching for updates. I hope you enjoy this and continue to believe that the tale will never be abandoned. Feedback is GREAT!**

**Romanse – who still can't get the pagebreaks to show up.**

A heavy silence seemed to linger in the air before settling like a wet blanket over Chris Larabee's office. The Team Seven leader, who had gotten up from behind his desk to lean against one wall, studied the still figure seated on the couch. Chris hated this, what he had had to do. The voice inside his head told Larabee that it wasn't his fault, that he had a duty to discharge in delivering the letter to his undercover agent, but it did little to sooth his troubled conscience.

This felt too much like a betrayal of the man who he'd snatched from the jaws of the personal Hell that was Atlanta. The man Larabee had met that day had looked remote, in-control on the outside but Chris had been able to read the misery contained in the depths of those green eyes. Ezra' eyes had held the look of a wounded, cornered animal, wrongfully accused and ostracized for it.

Larabee had not seen that look in years and in truth, he didn't think he'd ever see it again. He was seeing it now and Larabee felt helplessly inept to render any comforting words that a man as perceptive as Ezra Standish would not immediately reject for their lack of veracity. This presumed deficiency on Larabee's part he attributed partially to the typical manly aversion to that which he called, "that touchy-feely crap." Never mind that the occasion when he'd last employed it with no hesitation, Ezra had been dying right in front of him.

In the face of that disturbing memory, Larabee could only stare silently down at Standish. Ezra hadn't said a word, had not moved, save only to slowly fold the letter with elegant hands, and carefully place it in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Standish looked just as calm and composed as he ever did. A stranger looking at him could not be faulted if they wrongly concluded that Ezra Standish felt nothing in response to this new development.

Larabee was no stranger and he had glimpsed an unsettling view of tumultuous despair in Ezra's eyes before the Southerner had ruthlessly squelched it and the expression assumed a more placid state.

"Ezra," Larabee called. When Standish failed to acknowledge him, Larabee moved to stand directly in front of his agent and call again - this time more forcefully using the command tone that he used to both subdue suspects and compel agents to action.

Finally Ezra looked up. His face was imperturbable, his eyes unreadable. He took a deep breath and then slowly, clearly, he said, "Yes, Mr. Larabee?"

Chris was hit with a strange mixture of hope and frustration. Ezra had uttered a complete sentence correctly. It wasn't entirely a surprise – Ezra's type of aphasia manifested itself most commonly in long sentences – still, it was a relief to hear him speak normally, no matter how short the sentence. Larabee relished that moment when it was as though there was nothing wrong with Ezra. On the other hand, there was no mistaking the remote, closed off expression on Ezra's face that Chris knew was only a mask for Ezra's inner turmoil.

One look at that face and Chris' frustration began to eclipse the hopeful feeling. So this was how Ezra was going to play it: denial and stiff- backed formality while ill-favored circumstances flushed his career down the toilet. Well he wasn't having it. Larabee could feel his mouth settling into a grim line. They would do what they damn well always did when one of them was under attack: circle the wagons and fight like hell.

"We'll figure it out, Ezra."

Ezra's gaze dropped. The next time his eyes rose to meet Larabee's there was no mistaking the pained resignation that was fast overtaking the undercover agent. He stood up and began pacing, Chris silently watching him. Finally, Ezra stopped and extended his arm so that the medic-alert bracelet was exposed. "I am making this no change, Mr. Larabee. I to die when from something too smelly as a bee confrik to say this," Ezra reached in the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the letter and waived it agitatedly; "I'm sourly for duty."

Chris sighed inwardly as he tried and failed to work out what Ezra had said. The man's agitated state was, no doubt, adding its own boost to the jumble that was Ezra's speech. Larabee went over to his desk, pulled out the computer keyboard, and then turned the monitor around to face them both. "I'm sorry, Ezra but can you try typing out what you want to say?"

With a twisted look of frustration, Ezra went over and began typing with deliberation, punching the keys with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Chris read over his shoulder as the message Ezra had tried to communicate verbally appeared on the screen:

I can't change this. I could die from

something as smithly as a bee sting and

according to the missive, I apon unfit for duty.

Chris read the message and this time got the gist of what Ezra was communicating since the Aphasia symptoms were significantly less manifested in written communication.

Ezra shoved the keyboard forcefully away and resumed his restless pacing. Chris guessed that Ezra was imagining his life without the thrill and satisfaction of undercover work, with the ATF, without _them_. The man was scared and covering it with his anger, that much Chris understood.

Be that as it may, now wasn't the time to give into fear and an inevitable outcome, no matter how certain it may appear. Larabee hardened the tone of his voice. "That's a premature conclusion, Ezra. That's not exactly what the letter says and you know it. This isn't over, " he announced in a firm, decisive voice, sounding to his own ears that all he need do is decree it and Fate would had no choice but to obey and make it so.

Ezra stopped his pacing to stare with an incredulous expression at Chris Larabee. Chris stared evenly back; then for the first time since he entered Larabee's office, a small smile lifted the corners of Ezra's mouth. After a brief pause, the green-eyed man walked back to Chris' desk and reached once more for the keyboard. He began typing:

Says Moses coming down from the mountain.

Ezra wasn't exactly smiling, but the storm that had been steadily brewing in his eyes was abating. Chris rewarded Ezra's return to levity with a wry smile of his own. "Yeah, something like that," he answered.

At that juncture Chris determined that a change of subject was in order. When it rained, it poured. There was one more bit of bad news to add to the stress Ezra was already feeling. Without preamble, Chris got to the point: "Vita lost his motion for an extension on the continuance the judge originally granted when you were first injured. The judge based his decision on a bogus conclusion that your Aphasia is a permanent condition so there wouldn't be a point to delaying the start of the trial."

Thinking of Andrew Vita raised Chris' blood pressure. The memory of how Vita had scoffed his skepticism regarding the seriousness of Ezra's condition when Standish had been hospitalized still pissed him off. The man was a Federal Prosecutor and in Chris' opinion, incompetent. Vita's office had called to tell him about the denied second motion and Chris' anger had resurged then turned to distain. How the hell had the man been unable to effectively argue that Ezra's Aphasia was a temporary not permanent condition? Had the man even bothered to contact him or speak with Ezra's speech therapist?

Chris went back to his seat behind his desk. He looked Ezra straight in the eyes as he stated what was on his mind. "We _need _your testimony, Ezra. Without it, the entire case falls apart because there won't be any way to introduce the key evidence against the Heathens you worked so hard to get. Those bastards are gonna walk free."

Ezra looked perturbed and vehemently shook his head "no". He'd sacrificed months of his life living amongst the Heathens. That undercover assignment had been one of the most stressful, dangerous ones of his career. It had taken him quite some time to completely decompress after the bust. He wasn't about to be the reason the core leadership of the motorcycle gang were let loose on society again. Testifying was bound to be one long, humiliating public ordeal but he would endure it – giving in to his urge to hide was not an option.

Ezra returned to the keyboard and began typing.

If those cretins escape justice, it will not

swbe of me. I will need to meet like Mr. Vita.

He then turned the monitor back to face Chris so the Team Seven Leader could read it.

Though not flawless, Chris understood Ezra's message. Ezra was not willing to allow the Heathens to walk free because of his current difficulties in communicating. He would make himself available to the Federal Prosecutor's office for witness pre-trial preparation as was customary and together; they would work out a way to get the job done.

Chris read all of that and more in Ezra's short message – and he was relieved that of all emotions, determination was the one Ezra seemed to be feeling the most. That was good. They'd all worked hard to carry out a successful sting operation and it would have been a blow to all of them if the trial collapsed for lack of evidence. He allowed himself no outward display of his immense relief, however. Instead he merely gave a slight nod in Ezra's direction. "The trial starts Thursday. I'll contact Mr. Vita and find out when and where he wants to prep you."

Having perceived that this particular interview had come to an end, Ezra rose from his chair, rendered his trademark two-fingered salute, and departed the office.

The rest of the day passed in an odd mixture of business-as-usual and subdued cautiousness. All of the men of Team Seven found it strange for they were once again a team with all its members, yet not exactly whole. Robert Norton's presence at Ezra's desk was an ever-present reminder of the haunting question of just how long Ezra would be with Team Seven. As a result, there was an undercurrent of tension in the air that refused to dissipate, and when the end of the day finally came, no one was sorry to see it.

Ezra's day at the office had ended earlier than for the rest of his teammates as he was obliged to attend his speech therapy sessions with Dr. Spencer. Before that, Ezra had received a response to his text message to one of his King Street Boyz informants asking for a meeting at a local coffee shop the next day. Chris had had meetings to attend and Buck and Vin had gone out to the range for some obligatory weapons qualifications, leaving JD, Josiah, and Nathan alone in the office.

Earlier, when Ezra had emerged from Chris' office, Josiah, Nathan, and JD had looked at each other, knowing what had transpired. No one dared approach the undercover agent. Josiah had cast a contemplative look Ezra's way, and when it seemed as though he was about to go over and speak to the man who he sometimes referred to as "son", Nathan silently warned him off with a shake of his head. Ezra hadn't looked like he was in the mood for company just then. In fact everything about the man, from his stiff posture to his shuttered expression, screamed "leave me alone."

And so they had.

Ezra and Robert had made plans to meet the informant, Deonte "Bulldog" Welles, at 1: 00 pm the next day at the Koffee Kup, a tiny, hole-in-the-wall café in downtown Denver. After that, Ezra had spent time organizing his formal reports and personal notes regarding the Heathen's case and refreshing his memory as to their contents.

At 1230 JD began making noises about going out to grab a bite of lunch. The young man approached Josiah. "Hey, I'm starving. You ready to go get lunch?" he asked with a hopeful expression.

Josiah closed the open file on his computer screen and said by way of an answer, "Voltaire once wisely proffered that nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity."

JD looked at Josiah in fond exasperation. "Sometimes Josiah, even Ezra can give a straighter answer than you."

Josiah looked predictably appalled. "I said yes – and just for that, you're buyin',"

JD smirked and pulled out a five dollar bill and some change. "Sure, sure, Josiah. I'll split a Happy Meal and you can even have the toy."

Josiah reached out a meaty paw and, with amazing speed that belied his age, reached out and snagged the money from JD's hand. His grin exposed large, white teeth and then he chuckled. "I see a Big Mac in my immediate future." Sanchez glanced over at Nathan before he handed JD's money back. "Think I'll round up brother Nathan over there and see if he's got deeper pockets."

"Good idea," JD agreed. "What about Ezra?"

Josiah glanced at his wristwatch before answering. "Don't think so, JD. Ezra's working hard to get ready for the Heathen's trial and he's gonna be leaving here pretty soon to make it to his speech therapy session."

"I wish there was something I could do to help." JD remarked.

"You are, JD," Josiah assured the younger man. "Every time we encourage him to talk and fight to get his communications skills back we're helping the damaged brain tissue to heal just a little bit more. "

The two men ambled over to Nathan's desk where the medic appeared to be intently reading something on his computer screen and taking notes with a pad and pen. "Whatever it is you're working on, it can't be better than a Big Mac," JD challenged by way of a lunch invitation.

Nathan looked up, his eyes dark and serious in his face. "You know I don't care for a heart-attack-on-a-bun for lunch. If you had a lick of sense you two wouldn't eat that crap either."

"Ouch Nathan. Hey, I don't really care where we eat, just so long as we get _something_!" JD declared. "C'mon, let's go."

The two men couldn't help but see the way Nathan looked at his computer monitor as if he was reluctant to tear himself away from it.

Curious, Josiah asked, "Mind if I ask what are you working on?"

Nathan looked up again. His eyes held caution and his expression a strange reticence to share what he'd been working on with his colleagues. "You can ask, but that doesn't mean I'll tell you."

That caught JD's attention as well. Mindful of Nathan's serious expression, JD spoke. "Why can't you tell us? Maybe we can help."

"Nah." Nathan closed the browser window and rose. "I'm in the mood for lunch as long as it's not McDonald's. "

For a moment JD looked crestfallen, but almost immediately the eyes in his youthful face brightened. "Awesome! Let's go to Burger King – that lip-smackin' chicken, bacon , cheddar ranch sandwich is back on the menu!"

Ezra had worked straight through lunch, having declined Josiah's and JD's invitation to join them. The next time he happened to look up at the clock, he noticed that it was time for him to leave for his speech therapy appointment. Ezra secured his work station and rose from his chair in one smooth motion. He gathered up all the cards, balloons and gifts from his well-wishers and after a moment of consideration, grinned slightly and moved a box of premium chocolates over to Buck's desk.

Thirty-five minutes later, Ezra found himself sitting across from Dr. Lillian Spencer in the speech therapist's warm, inviting office at the Aphasia Center. Dr. Spencer peered with curiosity at Ezra from behind her desk. "I see by your attire that you've returned to work. How did that go?" She waited expectantly, guessing quite perceptively that the handsome man across from her wanted very much to write out an answer rather than respond with a verbal one.

She was disappointed but not surprised when Ezra uttered a too careful, too succinct, "Good." The doctor tried another question. "Have you been practicing the exercises we went over in our last session?"

Ezra had. He'd darn near worked non-stop on them and still – he felt he had little to show for it – not that he hadn't been warned that complete recovery could take time, or not at all. Ezra sighed internally with the full knowledge that what Dr. Spencer wanted was more than a simple 'yes' answer. He heard himself answer, and as usual, what Ezra perceived he had said was not the same as what came out of his mouth. In his mind, he said, "I have been most diligent at applying myself to the tasks which you assigned. I'm afraid though that I'm woefully lacking in improvement."

Ezra watched the doctor's face carefully for signs as to how well – or not – he'd spoken. He had, since his aphasia, quite naturally made use of his innate skill at reading body language. Unfortunately, Dr. Spencer could sport a poker face with the best of them, thus her expression was no indicator for Ezra either way.

After a time, Dr. Spencer replied. "Improvement will take time."

"I don't have empty time," Ezra snapped harshly– his tone surprising himself. _This isn't the good doctor's fault, _Standish internally chided. He knew his small lapse of control was entirely due to the emotions he was trying hard to suppress in the wake of having received the Medical Board's summons. Standish took a deep breath. "My apologies," he said, his speech without flaw.

"Apology accepted, Mr. Standish," Dr. Spencer replied softly.

Ezra hesitated for just a moment before reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out the letter. Carefully he unfolded it and placed it on Dr. Spencer's desk.

The therapist adjusted her reading glasses to her face, picked up the letter and began silently reading it. When she was done, she put the letter down with a sigh. "I see," she said simply. She understood her patient's earlier testiness. The handsome man across from her had just been informed that his job was in jeopardy because of a permanent, potential life-threatening medical condition. She could hardly blame him for showing a little emotional strain. Well, there was nothing her skills could do to fix Ezra's allergy, but she could darn well do her best to see that he had a chance to overcome his aphasia. It was time to get to work.

"Mr. Standish, I have the results of the various assessment tests you completed last week. I know how long and exhausting most people find such extensive testing but it was necessary to properly quantify the type extent of your aphasia." Dr. Spencer pulled out a brown folder and stood up gracefully. "Let's go to my table here so that we can look at the reports together."

Once situated side by side at the table, Dr. Spencer pulled out the assessment results. "As you recall, we spent a lot of time concentrating on five essential areas of communication in order to get the most accurate diagnosis of both the type and severity of your aphasia. Based on these extensive tests, I have confirmed the initial diagnosis of Wernicke's Aphasia with a rating of significant to severe.

Your speech was the first area I tested. This is the results of my evaluation of the specific components such as fluency, vocal quality, clarity, and the strength and coordination of your tongue and lips to produce sound." She directed Ezra's attention to the graphs documenting the results of each factor.

"As you can see, you rated high on every one of these elements."

This was good. Pleased, Ezra nodded his head in understanding.

Dr. Spencer continued. "Your comprehension levels were assessed using a series of oral and written tests to evaluate both semantics and syntax. Here you can see that you had no difficultly whatsoever in responding correctly to yes or no questions. Similarly, you scored above average in your ability to both follow directions increasing in complexity and in comprehending extended speech."

Ezra frowned slightly when he saw the result that measured his ability to use a language sample to write and tell an extended story. In comparison to the other areas, this one showed significant difference. Standish was aware that his writing had not been flawless so he was not particularly surprised at the lower rating, but he was disturbed by the apparent – and hereto unknown – deficiency in being able to understand what he had read and heard, and to extrapolate scenarios from it.

Dr. Spencer noted the frown and made to address what she surmised was the source. "Yes, that was a considerably weaker area, but that is neither a surprise nor something that cannot be improved." Standish appeared to relax a bit and Spencer pressed on. So far things were going well, she thought, but Dr. Spencer knew that her patient had yet to see the more negative results.

Ezra Standish's most obvious problematic area centered around expression. The graphed results documented in stark black and white the degree of the damage to Standish's ability to express himself.

Ezra stared at the report, trying to emotionally detach himself from the clinical evidence of the truth he'd known before only through his experience. Once again the fear he'd fought hard to keep at bay reared its persistent head, urging him to lash out, but he forced himself to continue examining each and every one of the factors and the weakness each documented.

Ezra grimaced. No, he could not find the correct words to describe the action in the story pictures he had been shown. No, he could not always recall the words he needed to express ideas, and no, he could not, without great difficulty, articulate the steps required to complete the specified tasks.

Seeing the test results forced Ezra to think about the upcoming trial for which his testimony was critical. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. How was he ever going to manage sitting in the witness box having his already jumbled words twisted and perverted by whatever slick defense attorney represented the Heathens? He felt nearly sick just thinking about how he was setting himself up for a major headache, not to mention public humiliation. The defense would eat him for lunch if he couldn't relate events in the correct chronological order or even articulate them correctly to begin with.

Ezra forced himself to continue reading page after page of extensive test results. As before, what remained proved to be a mixed-bag with some areas barely impacted by the aphasia, and others showing significant need for improvement.

As difficult as it had been to see the extent of his aphasia documented, at the end of the day, Dr. Spencer's calm, professional outlook regarding the level of rehabilitation Ezra could achieve served to beat back the rising tide of dismay he'd felt overtaking him. He'd not only regained his resolve, but he forced himself to look at the results, not as the humiliating documentation of his deficiency, but as an objective standard by which to measure his journey towards improvement.

Dr. Spencer noticed a change come over her patient. There had been a leaching away of the tension that had been evident in the handsome man's posture and an appearing of a hard glint in the agent's intelligent, green eyes. She nodded in satisfaction. She knew a winner when she saw one. This man who had, not so long ago, been suddenly brought to death's door had not escaped neither physically nor emotionally unscathed. Despite his fear, in the face of his frustration, Ezra Standish was not afraid to fight to get his life back.

She was not a betting woman, but had anyone asked, she would have gladly put her money on Ezra Standish making a full recovery.

_The Saloon_

Inez Rocios, primary confidant and head barkeeper at one of Denver's more popular social establishments known as The Saloon_,_ automatically swept a rag down the spotlessly clean bar that absolutely _did not _require another wipe down. She did it anyway, both out of constant habit and to maintain the delusion that she could keep it looking that way if she just kept on top of the evening crowd.

Halfway through her labors, Inez paused to look out over the bar. At six pm, this was the tip of the evening crowd that, even on the weekdays, faithfully came in, boisterous, hungry, and thirsty. It was a crowd heavily represented by members of Denver's law enforcement community. Inez could see some of The Saloon's usual customers already clustered around tables; There were men and women from the Denver Police, some FBI agents from the local field office, members of the ATF. The fiery, young, Hispanic woman surveyed the small but growing crowd with a feeling of eager anticipation for the arrival of one particular group of customers whom she had not seen in quite awhile - well not since a certain ATF agent had almost died, Inez corrected herself.

She had a soft spot for the men of Team Seven. Their reputation for being tough, courageous, decent men had preceded them long before she met their acquaintance, but Inez had relied upon her own keen powers of observation and discernment to reach her own conclusions about the character of the team. In her estimation, those men _were_ indeed a courageous group, fiercely loyal to each other. Each of them, from the outwardly intimidating Chris Larabee, to the youthful, exuberant JD Dunne, had captured her heart with their obvious regard of each other and their gentlemanly ways towards her.

Her line of work had its own built-in hazards and Inez was a woman who preferred to take care of business herself. Occasionally, the inebriated, over-amorous male customer who could not seem to take 'no' for an answer made that impossible. All it took was a look in their direction, a silent communication for assistance and they were there, quietly and decisively getting rid of the problem. It had become a reciprocal relationship as over time, she had become just as protective of them as they were of her.

This particular night would see all of them just a tad more protective of one of their own. She of course, knew what had happened to Ezra Standish. Her good friend, Mary Travis, had called her to tell her the news when the handsome Southerner had been hospitalized, near death. She'd been horrified to hear of the bee attack on Ezra , consequently, she'd been deeply concerned for his health and saddened at the loss of Chris' dog, Devil.

Not long after hearing the news, Inez had sought Divine comfort via the worn, familiar rosary beads that had once belonged to her grandmother. She'd prayed and then prayed some more and when she had no more words left in which to entreat God for Ezra's life, she had gone to the hospital where she'd taken a turn sitting at the bedside of the suffering man.

When Ezra had regained consciousness days ago, the news of his aphasia had been slow in coming. When it did, her joy at knowing that Ezra had stabilized and was going to live had turned to worry all over again.

Inez liked to think that she knew Ezra better than most any other woman in Denver and she counted that a rare privilege for Standish, as freely and openly as he joked around with her, remained a private and enigmatic man. Despite his natural reserve around people who were not his team mates, Ezra had let down his guard and allowed Inez to see more than just the wickedly, razor-sharp sense of humor he occasionally let loose. Standish had allowed Inez to see a large part of the heart he carefully guarded. Thus, knowing Ezra, the Southerner would be struggling with diminished communication skills and laboring under the strain of trying not to show it.

Ever the pragmatic woman, Inez knew that Ezra wouldn't want special treatment and with an affectionate smirk, she vowed that he wouldn't get it from her. She would, however, ensure that the table Team Seven normally gathered around stayed vacant and ready for them for whenever they would arrive.

According to a well-placed phone call by Buck Wilmington (whose own tongue-in-cheek, amorous advances towards Inez consistently met a brick wall) this was the night when Team Seven would return to occupy their usual table. Inez felt her face light up when ten minutes later, Wilmington made good on his word and the men of Team Seven strode through the door and made their way towards 'their' vacant table.

They were all there, Chris, Josiah, Buck, Vin, JD, Nathan and Ezra, all looking vastly different from the last time she'd seen most of them - especially Ezra. Not quite smiling, not quite looking entirely relaxed, Inez recognized the signs that all was not completely well with Team Seven. However, considering the stressed-out, exhausted way they'd last appeared, Inez decided she'd take this vast improvement any day.

Inez moved to walk out from the bar to greet them, but before she could take two steps forward she felt an insistent tug at her elbow followed by a rapid exchange of words in Spanish, with Roberto, the head chef. Her reunion temporarily delayed, Inez allowed herself to be diverted to the kitchen to head off some impending crisis.

Later. She would check on her friends later.

The smell of beer and burgers and the noise of boisterous laughter over the strains of country music was a sublime mixture that made time spent in The Saloon feel more like home than a mere place to eat and quench one's thirst. Chris Larabee looked at the faces of his men gathered around the table and finally felt the last vestiges of tension ease from his body. It had taken a little time to get over the awkwardness that had been present when the men had initially arrived.

The awkwardness was not an unexpected thing. It was a cold, hard fact that Ezra's diminished communication skills had altered the dynamics of how the men related within the group. Larabee had not been the only one to struggle with finding the new dynamic that accommodated Ezra's new reality and also preserved the core of how they had always interacted with each other.

Larabee was struggling with uncertainty and he hated that. It bothered him that he was unsure of how to interact with Ezra in a place where they were all used to laughing, telling stories, and joking a great deal of the time. They had long ago established a rhythm, a pattern of their friendship where each man, even the normally quiet Vin Tanner and the formally reticent Ezra, took equal responsibility for the camaraderie.

But what about now? Would a social gathering turn into an awkward, strained affair with Ezra becoming increasingly frustrated from having to work so hard to be understood and from his friends becoming equally frustrated from the difficult thing it was to understand him? Larabee didn't want to push Ezra into talking, neither did he want to do anything that would unconsciously signal to his friend that he didn't want him to make the effort to talk.

Jennifer, a pretty red haired waitress Buck had once dated, came over to take their orders. "Hey guys, good to see ya back. What can I get for you?" she fairly purred. Her query was meant for all of them, but her flirtatious gaze was only for the handsome, lanky Buck.

JD turned his head away and discreetly rolled his eyes. _You'd never know by the way she's looking at Buck that she's the one who dumped him._

Buck's lips turned up into a rakish grin. "Well it's good to see you too, darlin'. How about me and you get together after you get off work"

He was wearing that expression that JD recognized as the intent to reel the woman in**. **

Jennifer saw it and gave a mock sigh. "If only I weren't engaged." She held up her left hand with a good-sized rock on the third finger. Everyone but Buck chuckled or snickered good-naturedly. Buck's moustache seemed to droop just a little. "He's a lucky man," the ladies' man murmured graciously.

Jennifer smiled and proceeded to make quick work of the ordering process. It was easy for her; she knew them all and their ordering habits so she went around the table and simply asked, "The usual?"

A chorus of varied 'yups', one 'yes', and 'yes Ma'am's' rang out from all but Josiah. The older man was busy eyeballing the huge plate of wings that had just been deposited on the table next to them with lust in his heart. Josiah grinned. "Not today Miss Jenny. I'd greatly appreciate it though if you would bring me two of those."

Jennifer winked a sparkling eye at Josiah. "That's an awful lot of food even for a big man like you."

"This big man has an equally big appetite for those wings. I'm starving," Josiah declared.

"You ate a big lunch. There wasn't a crumb left," JD reminded Josiah unhelpfully. "You always said it was a sin to waste food," he added for good measure.

"You know you that spicy foods give you heartburn," Nathan fussed.

Amused, Josiah raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a challenge, brothers." Sanchez addressed the pretty waitress, "Two orders please."

With a smirk and a "you got it", Jennifer headed towards the bar amidst the rising noise level as groups of patrons began arriving in a steady stream.

Minutes later it was not Jennifer who reappeared with a tray full snacks and bottles of ice cold beer in the brands of each man's preference, but rather Inez herself come to wait on the men herself. "Buenos Noches!" Inez greeted them enthusiastically. There was a chorus of "Good to be here" and "It's great to see you, Inez," from the men.

How wonderful it was to see her friends together at their favorite table once again! She grinned broadly at all of them as she set out the snacks and drinks, but her dark eyes shone especially bright at Ezra, and it was only Ezra who received a sisterly peck on the cheek. Inez couldn't help herself; visions of the last time Ezra had looked, suffering and near death, superimposed themselves over the healthy-looking Ezra before her.

Her grin faltered slightly but when Ezra squeezed her hand and murmured, "thank you" Inez's heart lightened and the grin returned in full brilliance. The young woman knew that handsome green-eyed man was thanking her for more than the warm greeting. She had read in his eyes so much - things they'd never speak aloud lest it degrade the quality of their playful, sibling-like relationship. Ezra's eyes had said, 'thank you for visiting me in the hospital. Thank you for holding my hand and giving me orders in Spanish to never give up.'

Inez moved past Buck Wilmington and as she did so, the ladies' man titled his cheek up towards her in a sappy 'me too' expression. Inez chuckled and to the amusement of all, instead of bestowing a kiss, patted Buck's head like a overindulged dog.

Inez surveyed the scene again to satisfy herself that all was well. Having accomplished that, she spoke, "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you boys." Then Inez left, taking her empty tray and her carefree mood with her.

Her departure seemingly ushered back the subtle air of awkwardness again. Talk among the team was sporadic; conversations started, stuttered and came to a painful halt. Ezra seemed to withdraw into himself as if wishing to be anywhere else but there. The unfamiliar group dynamic had all of the men hastening to occupy their mouths and hands with their drinks.

It was young JD Dunne who, after seeing how his friends' faces couldn't conceal the strain that lurked underneath the effort to appear relaxed, took the bull by the horns and by the force of his exuberant personality, broke through the barrier. JD leaned forward, his mouth breaking into a wide grin. "Hey you guys, listen up. I've got a perfect joke to tell in honor of us all being here at The Saloon."

When none of the customary groans of protest were forthcoming, JD, rather than be dismayed at the sign of how truly dismal the situation was, rubbed his hands together gleefully. "A bar owner in the Old West hired a new bartender who was very timid. On his first day, the owner was giving the bartender his instructions. He told the timid man that if he ever heard that a man named, Big John had come to town, drop everything and run for the hills. 'He's the meanest, biggest, nastiest outlaw who ever lived.' A few weeks pass and nothing happen, until one afternoon a cowhand comes running in yelling, 'Big John is coming to town, run for your lives!' The bartender is knocked down by the crowd of townsfolk scurrying to get out of town. After the frightened man got up he saw a big, muscular man about seven feet tall walking towards the saloon, growling. He orders the barkeeper inside and pounds his fist on the bar. 'I want a beer NOW!' he thunders. Well, the barkeeper can hardly serve the man his beer 'cause his hands are shaking so badly, but when he does, the man downs the beer in one gulp. The poor barkeeper stammers out, 'Do you want another?' The giant looks at him and yells, 'Dang it, I don't have time! I gotta get outa town. Haven't ya heard? Big John is comin'!'

JD laughed until tears were streaming from his eyes and just as he always did, he choked out, "That was funny, right? Right it was funny?"

The resulting reaction, though slightly delayed , was blessedly familiar. "JD…" was all Buck could get out before he lowered his head and began laughing - more at the expression on JD's face, then the joke.

"That's krey horrendous," Ezra said with a smirk.

Chris' hard eyes softened. One by one, the others joined in JD's and Bucks' unrestrained laughter and it was as if a switch had been thrown, obliterating all traces of strain and replacing it with genuine fellowship. That was all it took to reboot the group back to what they were used to. They knew how this thing between them worked, they just needed to _feel _it. Not the old, exact same way, but a new one, made to fit all of them in the current circumstances.

For now, that was good enough.

By 8:30 everyone but Josiah had sated their appetites for food and drink. Josiah decided that the Good Lord was punishing him for his bout of gluttony for when his first huge serving arrived he had consumed no more than three wings before Buck's over-demonstrative reenactment of an action movie sequence caused Josiah's wings to take flight and land on the floor. "Sit down, Buck," Josiah had thundered as if scolding an errant school boy. To which Buck cheekily plucked a glazed wing clinging to the edge of the tablecloth and ate it.

While the others were busy tucking into their food, Josiah was left to wait for the return of the suddenly elusive Jennifer. By the time the big man flagged down the waitress and placed another order, he was still waiting for the other half of his original order while everyone else had just about finished with their food.

Josiah was still waiting for the replacement order of wings when Chris glanced at his watch, then pushed himself away from the table. Out of all of them, the Team Seven leader had the longest commute home. The Larabee ranch was located forty miles beyond the Denver city limits in the opposite direction of The Saloon.

"You leaving now?" Nathan asked, observing his boss. Larabee looked tired, but content.

"Yeah," Larabee grunted and looked around the table at his team – his friends, with a deep sense of satisfaction. " You ladies have yourself a lovely time – and don't be late in the morning ." Larabee gave a parting smirk. "That means you, Ezra."

Ezra's smirk answered Larabee's and the words, "ghastly hour" were clearly discernible from whatever else was in his mock-sharp retort.

As if on cue, Vin Tanner also rose. "Reck 'n I oughta be goin' too." The handsome Texan looked pointedly at the significant pile of wings Josiah was still steadily making his way through, albeit at a noticeably slower pace than when he'd started out. "Ya need any help making those disappear, Josiah?"

"Nope," Sanchez said around a mouth full of chicken, not even sparing Vin a look.

Vin shrugged good-naturedly. "Suit yerself." Like Larabee had, he too looked around the table at the remaining faces and gave a short nod. "See ya'll tomorrow."

This seem to kick-off a mass exodus as Buck followed suit. As JD had forsaken his motorcycle to ride in with his roommate, he was forced to make his exit as well. That left Josiah, Ezra and Nathan.

Nathan looked at his watch and an 'oh no' expression crossed his face while at the same time, he jumped to his feet. "I've got 15 minutes to get across town and pick up Raine from her shift at the hospital. I forgot she dropped off her car at the shop during her lunch hour. She's gonna kill me!" he exclaimed.

Josiah paused in the act of sucking the meat right off a juicy wing to share his most insightful profiler evaluation: "You're a whipped man, Brother Nathan."

Nathan laughed, reached in his shirt pocket and tossed a roll of TUMS at the big man. "Better than being a sick man like you're gonna be."

Nathan's departure left Ezra and Josiah still at the table. Sanchez sighed and pointed to the wings. "Would you care for some wings or is your coach turning into a pumpkin too?"

Ezra rose to his feet and in an elegant motion, slipped into his jacket. Larabee's undercover agent hadn't said much all evening, but when he had, it had been in a clear, confident-sounding voice in contrast to how challenging speaking actually was. As was the nature of Werrnicke's aphasia, Ezra's speech sounded correct to him. The only way he knew that it was not was by reading the faces of those to whom he spoke. It was tiring, but the Southerner was laughing as he dangled the keys to his Jaguar up high. "No. Myself is pumpkin from what a more of conveyance and you tookling any day," Ezra declared.

The 'no' part of Ezra's speech, Josiah understood. The rest, the big man was too intent on eating one wing after the other to decipher. He was fairly certain by Ezra's tone that somewhere tucked away in the words had been a witty insult. Fortunately for Josiah, Ezra did not appear to be expecting a response. Instead, Ezra delivered his customary two-fingered salute and departed leaving Josiah to wax philosophical about the pleasures of eating one's fill of hot wings at The Saloon in peace.

Josiah Sanchez was truly enamored with his dwindling order of wings, but even had he not been, the place had gotten so busy that he would not have noticed the well-dressed man with the head of thick, silver-grey hair staring unobtrusively at him from a discreet corner near the bar. The man took slow sips of his drink - which had anyone cared to investigate - would have discovered was nothing more than tonic water. At some point during the man's covert observation he took out a cellphone and made a brief call.

Fifteen minutes and one long gulp of beer to wash down the wings later, Josiah gave a satisfied, quiet belch and looked around to hail Jennifer to settle his bill. It was Inez who sashayed up to him instead. "So, how is Mr. Standish?" the perceptive bartender asked bluntly as she took up Josiah's check and credit card.

Josiah stared at Inez thoughtfully for a moment before he answered. "Didn't he look fine to you?" he asked.

Inez looked put upon. "Madre de Dios! Of course he looked fine, but what does the way he look have to do with the price of tea in China?

"Not much," Josiah readily admitted. "This _is _Ezra we're talking about."

Inez waited patiently.

Finally, Josiah sighed and said, "Ezra's dance card is a bit full these days. He's still fighting to get his full health back and he's having to face some pretty stressful giants at work while he's at it." His answer had been purposely vague to protect Ezra's privacy, but one that he hoped conveyed the essential truth that Ezra's ordeal was far from over.

Inez understood all she needed to and she was saddened by it. "Oh, lo siento," she murmured, her apology automatically articulated in Spanish due to the depths of her concern.

"Brother Standish isn't alone. He's got us." The big man paused. "All of us," he added, his meaning intentionally including Inez.

"I believe that.'' Inez replied firmly. She smiled then proceeded to take care of Josiah's check. When she returned, Josiah got up and put away his credit card. "Don't stay away so long next time," Inez gently chastised.

When Josiah started walking in the direction of his car, his eyes immediately grew wide with admiration when he saw the car parked kitty-corner to his old but dependable Chevy Suburban. The 1960 cherry red, restored Plymouth Fury was a classic thing of beauty that took his breath away. But when Josiah managed to rip his appreciative gaze away to look just beyond the car and saw how his own car was situated, he immediately regretted having chosen that particular spot.

Originally, he'd chosen to park at the far end of the lot at a time when it had been early and few cars present. In any parking lot, Sanchez preferred to park in the perimeter, farthest away spaces where it was easier for him to maneuver his large vehicle. This specific space was one that was hedged- in on both the front and driver's side by a row of thick bushes. He thought that it would be a convenient space for getting in and out since only one car could park next to him on his right. Plus, he'd only planned on staying a short time and never anticipated that he'd end up being the last one to leave at a time when the lot would already be full.

Sanchez was not pleased.

Although the beautiful Fury was properly within the boundary lines of its own space, the long car with its shark fins in the rear extended out an inch – directly behind Josiah's car. There was a car parked on his right and Josiah knew that while he _could _get out, it was going to take some time and skill. The common sense part of his brain told him to just go back inside and ask that a page be made for the car's owner, so that the Fury could back out first, but his stubborn male pride overruled his good sense. It would be a fight, but he would get his car out on his own.

With a grumble, Josiah settled his big frame behind the wheel and fired up the engine. Slowly, carefully, he began to move his car. Back and forth, inch by inch, steering the wheel hard while the sweat ran down his face from the broken air conditioner, he maneuvered his car until he was more than half-way out.

Then disaster struck.

From inside his car, Josiah didn't see the man, apparently the Fury's owner, running towards the back end of his vehicle. Sanchez never heard the man frantically yelling, "Stop! Stop!" He heard the sudden, sickening sound of a loud 'thump' as something substantial hit his car and felt his car abruptly rock. Startled and confused, Josiah jumped in his seat, and his heart began to race from the sudden jolt of adrenaline. "What the…?" Josiah didn't finish his question, but rather hastily put his car in park and jumped out.

Josiah's mouth gaped and he stared, momentarily stunned at the sight that greeted him. A well-dressed man in his late fifties was on the ground, grimacing and rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand while trying to rise.

"Wait a minute! Not so fast," Josiah cried and rushed over to aid the fallen man. He got out his phone and prepared to dial 911. He felt his arm being grabbed.

The man's head with its shock of thick, grey hair rose and a pair of pained, sheepish blue eyes peered up at Josiah before the man staggered up to his feet. The man groaned. "I'm all right. Don't call please! I'm humiliated enough as it is! I swear I was born with two left feet and I should have known not to run in a parking lot with pot holes!" The stranger looked immensely embarrassed and babbled on. "It's just that…well, I saw you trying to back out and I thought you were about to hit my car. I blocked you in, I see that now. I am so sorry about that."

Josiah's pounding heart began to beat normally again. He raised a thick eyebrow. "You ran into my car and you didn't hurt yourself?" he asked dubiously.

"My shoulder does hurt a little, but I think I just bruised it some." The man paused in his self-examination. "This… " he gestured towards at the car, "This is actually my _wife's _baby and she's gonna kill me if I get a scratch on her."

Josiah observed the man before slowly putting away his phone. His concern was beginning to be replaced by anger at the man. He'd almost given him a heart attack all because he couldn't park his car right to begin with! Josiah took a deep, calming breath. "You slammed into my card pretty hard. Are you sure you don't need medical attention?"

"I need a drink," the man declared bluntly. Suddenly, he grinned at Josiah, looking at him with intelligent, piercing blue eyes. "You didn't actually hit my car did you?''

The agent in Sanchez should have grown leery at the inquiry, no matter how jovial-sounding it had been made. Was this man some kind of scammer? Was he going to try to blame this on him to squeeze him for money? Despite these cynical thoughts, Josiah chuckled softly. "Not to worry. I didn't touch it." He looked pointedly at his Suburban and the stranger's gaze followed. "And I don't think you put any dents in mine, either."

"I apologize," the man replied quickly. "If you aren't in a hurry, I'd like to make up the trouble for all this…," he waived his good arm vaguely. "Come back inside and let me buy you a drink."

Josiah thought about it for a moment. He had wanted to get home and finish up some interior painting he'd been working on but he really didn't feel like it. He _had _been given quite a scare. If the man responsible for it wanted to buy him a drink to apologize, then that was all right with him. On the other hand, if the man _was _ some kind of scammer… If that was the case, he'd do himself and the man a favor by letting him know from the get-go that he was an ATF agent. "I'll just move my car to another space," was all that he said for the moment.

Josiah got in his car and continued backing out the rest of the way with the man's assistance. A minute later he found a vacant space nearby and he pulled in, cut the engine and exited the car. Josiah watched as the Fury's driver walked up to him, stopping periodically to brush off imbedded gravel and dirt from the knees of his expensive suit. Sanchez casually reached in his pocket and pulled out his ATF credentials and showed them to the man. "Josiah Sanchez. ATF agent.'' Josiah watched the man's face carefully, but he showed no reaction that raised any alarms with Josiah.

On the contrary, the man smiled easily, confidently as he pulled out a business card which he handed over to Josiah. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Preston Adams III, attorney at law."

"Ah, a man of the bar," Josiah commented. He was not surprised to learn the man was a lawyer. "What kind of law do you practice?"

"I dabble in a variety of civil cases, but my specialty is labor law. '' Adams shook his head. "You wouldn't believe what some government agencies try to get away with."

TBC


End file.
